


The Neighbourhood Affair

by melissen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: BAMF Illya, Bottom Napoleon, Eventual Smut, Hate to Love, M/M, Napoleon is a Little Shit, Pining, Protective Illya, Secret Identity, Some Humor, Some Plot, Spies & Secret Agents, Top Illya
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-28 17:36:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7650118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissen/pseuds/melissen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The line between love and hate can sometimes be so thin that even the best spies can simply miss it.<br/>or:<br/>Choose your neighbours before you buy your house. (Nigerian proverb)</p><p>Probably kind of slow build... probably will be longer than 10K...<br/>Our two favourite spies meet in different circumstances than in the movie, but it’s NOT AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don’t break your shins on your neighbour’s pots

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. English is still not my first language - don't expect it to change. Sorry.  
> 2\. My first fic in this fandom so please be nice.  
> 3\. I was a fan of the TV series so some facts I do keep from there.  
> 4\. "The Man from U.N.C.L.E." and the characters - not mine. Sadly.... :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter BETA edited by TawnyPixie. Thank you so much! You're doing everyone such a huge favor!

**Don’t break your shins on your neighbour’s pots. (Italian proverb)**

 

Napoleon's scrutinizing look studied the candidates for a long moment.

They looked pretty promising in his eyes. He wasn’t exactly into younger men, or men at all for that matter, but a position of a pool boy was, by definition, meant for a boy; young, pretty boy who would match the scenery and was easy on the eyes.

Napoleon appreciated beauty.

So, since they were all attractive, the trick was to choose one that would not rob Napoleon’s house the moment he steped out the door.

As a spy Napoleon had, of course, his ways to check on the candidates, but all four of them had clean records so far so he needed to take a closer look at each individual.

The one furthest to the left was tapping a rhythm with his foot, his head bobbing to the song heard only in his own head. He was looking around curiously, probably planning the best spot for a dance floor. Napoleon had no doubts that the boy would throw a party in his house as soon as he left on a job.

Solo was gone much too often to risk that.

The second candidate was a cute posh creature with beautiful red lips that looked like they were made for one purpose only.... But he also looked like he may fall under the weight of a skimmer net, so - not very practical.

The third was, well,  a surprise. Despite his young age he wasn't a boy. He was a man. Hidden in his baggy shirt he didn't look like much at first but he seemed to be very nicely build under his atrocious clothes. Napoleon wanted to ask him to strip his shirt to confirm his suspicions, but then again, maybe he shouldn't.

The last one looked like a swimmer - tanned, lean and fit - he obviously spent a lot of time swimming and sunbathing... It was questionable to say that least whether he would do any work around the pool at all, or just spend his day working on his beauty.

“Hello, gentlemen. My name is Napoleon Solo and before I choose one of you to tend to my swimming pool I would like to ask you a few questions.”

He hardly managed to finish the last word when the doorbell started to ring. Again. And again, this time accompanied by impatient knocking.

“Excuse me for a moment.” He smiled charmingly at the four young men gathered in his living room and strode to the door to get rid of the intruder. When he looked out through the peep-hole his breath caught in his throat for a moment. He straightened his back, took a deep breath and quickly fixed his hair and tie. Then he opened the door with another smile that normally made all women in his vicinity swoon.

Of course, it wasn’t a woman on the other side of the door. It was a man and he was not impressed with Napoleon’s smile in the slightest. He was scowling angrily, his whole body emanating waves of tension and barely restrained fury, his face twisted in, well, for lack of better word, disgust.

“Is that your car blocking my driveway?” The heavy Russian accent and deep voice of the intruder made Napoleon’s insides tie in knots. He inhaled some air into his lungs to give a witty reply when the smell of a subtle cologne filled his nostrils and made the knot in his stomach tighten. 

The man invading Napoleon’s doorstep was his mysterious neighbor, who the American sadly couldn’t help but be annoyingly curious about.  
  
He appeared out of nowhere few months earlier and it was fishy from the start, because it was like he never really moved in. Normally when a person buys a house they bring their stuff in - furniture, personal trinkets etc. This guy brought exactly _nothing_ but four suitcases. Napoleon wouldn’t fit half of his shirts in four suitcases, much less his whole wardrobe. Then again this guy wore slacks and turtlenecks almost every day so it probably could fit into only one of those cases leaving the other three for his ugly golf caps, guns and, who knows, maybe even the chopped bodies of his poor victims.

Napoleon had waited for him to settle in but the biggest thing the man ever brought to his house was a paper bag of groceries. And that was exactly once. Normally he only brought home take-out.

How did Napoleon know all that? Well, he WAS a spy after all!

And he had a lot of free time to kill recuperating from a nasty bullet wound in his shoulder. Staying at home was driving him nuts until he discovered the new addition to his neighborhood.

The Mystery Man was driving a red Porsche 356, which surely had seen better days. But even though it was a convertible he never opened the roof so Napoleon couldn't get a good look at his face until one day when their cars stopped at a red light, side by side. Napoleon stared at the other man perhaps a little too openly because the return glare directed at him still made his blood run cold when he thought about it. And Napoleon knew he was probably thinking about it too often, but it wasn't something that he could change at will either.  
  
So, his neighbor was downright scary and no normal person had any right to make that kind of impression on the CIA’s brightest agent. Still, Napoleon - who was stuck in his house for three weeks, entertained only with nightly visits of willing women - decided that maybe befriending his neighbor would be a nice way to kill time.

Needless to say, he was wrong. 

The first time he risked saying hello to the giant menace he received a glare full of contempt which strangely made him feel awfully like he deserved it.

He tried again though, and that didn't go very well either. The other man didn't glare this time. He froze and slowly turned his head to look at Napoleon over his muscled shoulder. His cold eyes quickly scanned the area, and then moved to Napoleon's house, pointedly stopping for a moment at each and every motion sensor and camera he had  installed on his premises. Then his eyes  went back to meet Napoleon's and it sent shivers through the CIA agent, because the coldness of those icy blue eyes made that warm spring morning feel like a frozen tundra. 

After that impressive show of his observational skills he simply turned and left, leaving Napoleon in a very confused, irritated and strangely frustrated state.

That sort of rude behavior was in Napoleon's books equal to declaring war, so he started planning a strategy.

There was a tree in his neighbor's backyard, but except for roots and the lower part of the trunk, the rest chose to move to Napoleon's side of the fence. Napoleon loved to sit in the shade of its canopy, but war required sacrifices. According to the law if he wanted the branches hanging over his property gone, he needed to ask his neighbor to remove them. Since the man often left for few days Napoleon didn't have to wait long for a perfect opportunity.

As soon as his Russian neighbor left with suitcase in hand Napoleon immediately placed a note in his mail box. The note contained a request to remove the branches within 3 days. He was lucky, because the man came back after four days. After Napoleon had already done the work. Napoleon was laughing out loud when the man returned home and stood staring stupidly at the pile of wood covering his whole driveway. Napoleon stopped laughing though when the Russian's furious eyes met his dead on, even though the man should not be able to see him through the tinted glass of his window. His heart fluttered and when his doorbell rang he DID NOT jump, but he was startled and for good a five minutes and considered whether he should be a man and open the door or be smart and just run. He secretly hoped the Russian would just give up and leave, but he didn't. When the door opened he slapped a familiar piece of paper against Napoleon's chest.

"What the hell have you done to my driveway?" The man was even taller than Napoleon thought. His absurdly tall figure up close was intimidating. A small scar just under his right eye was sure proof of his undoubtedly violent nature and the nervous tick of his fingers warned Napoleon about possible psychotic behaviors.

"Well hello, neighbor. I gave you three days’ notice to remove the branches from my property."

"Branches? That is whole tree!" His heavy Russian accent and deep, low voice was just as rough, hard and uncompromising as the man himself.

"Well... all that _was_ on my property."

The man held the piece of paper in his clenched fist, squeezing it mercilessly, surely wishing it could be replaced with Napoleon’s family jewels.

"Three days? I was gone!"         

"That is not my problem."

The man scowled even harder and it physically pained Napoleon that the bastard still looked so handsome even twisting his face like that. Not fair at all.

"You are blocking my driveway. Take that tree away. Now."

"Actually, according to the law, any branches and/or fruit removed belong to the tree's owner and should be offered back to the owner."

"You did not offer. You dumped it on my driveway and it's blocking the garage."

Napoleon grinned in triumph. "Which you cannot prove."

One side of the scowling lips lifted up slightly as the man pulled out a freakishly small tape recorder out of his pocket. 

Napoleon snorted. "That cannot be a real thing." He chuckled nervously, but then his neighbor stopped the tape, rewound and re-played their whole conversation. Napoleon paled but played it cool.

"So what? It will take weeks or even months before the court _maybe_ admits you are right and fines me."

The Russian's fist hit the door, making a huge dent in the solid wood about an inch from Napoleon's head. How was that even possible?

Napoleon cleared his throat which suddenly became very tight. "I'll send you a bill for the door."

“I don't know why you are doing this but I will find out. And then you regret."

Napoleon regretted it much sooner than he thought he would. Even just knowing that the punishment was coming was driving him nuts. He didn't know what to expect or when it would hit him, but he was pretty sure it would hurt. It was a bit like living with a sentence, but also it was exciting. He asked himself billion times why the hell had he started that idiotic conflict and couldn't think of anything to explain his own absurd behavior except that it was fun to rile that man up.

That is also why he started to redirect all travelling salesmen to the Russian’s house, encouraging them to be stubborn, particular about details and overly friendly, because his neighbor was _extremely_ shy but also very sweet. He stopped doing that only after the third, a particularly annoying one, ended up in the ER with eight broken bones and trauma for life. Maybe Napoleon overdid it convincing the Avon consultant to offer a consultation for his neighbor’s more feminine side, but still the Russian’s wrath unleashed on the poor boy was out of scale. Also Napoleon was convinced that he threw the boy against his mailbox on purpose.

Soon it was time for his annual garden party. The first person receiving an invitation was of course the brooding Russian. Sadly, instead of being pleased with it and coming to the party he chose to ruin it instead. A bonfire  made of still fresh branches and leafs on his neighbor's lawn made everyone’s eyes water and the kerosene the Russian had been spilling generously to help moist branches catch the fire surely did nothing to make the smoke more bearable. The electric fan positioned strategically behind the fire and facing Napoleon's backyard finally forced him to move the party inside, despite truly marvelous weather and the 90% of his guests who were wearing bikinis to play in the pool.

Some weird black things still floated in the water after that but the American was somehow reluctant to retaliate for the blow. He decided to hire someone to clean his pool instead.

These events left Napoleon feelings a bit uneasy upon seeing the Russian appear suddenly on his doorstep.

…

“Um… Hello to you too, neighbor." Napoleon remained stolidly polite. "If you mean that black Jaguar then yes, it happens to be mine. I’m sorry for the inconvenience but I’m currently a bit busy, you see.” 

“I don’t care. Remove your car. Now. I need to go.” 

“There are four men I don’t even know currently waiting in my living room. I can’t leave them alone; even with the Red Peril at my door.”

“Then give me your car keys. Quick.”

“I will not let a suspicious stranger drive my car.”

“Suspicious?” The man spat the words at Napoleon. That disgust on his face matched the tone of his voice perfectly and Napoleon had to wonder why it was being directed at him. Anger he could understand in these circumstances, but disgust?

“We’re neighbors! And I’m not going to steal your absurdly expensive car. If you don’t move it right now I will do it with my bare hands and I’m pretty sure you don’t want that.”

So that was where the disgust was coming from. Napoleon had to smile in triumph. Of course the Russian would hate the splendor of capitalistic life. Unfortunately, his companion took his smile the wrong way. His lips formed an angry line on his unnecessarily handsome face and he quickly turned around and walked away, reaching his driveway in about two strides.

“Stop! You hear me?” It took a few seconds too long for Napoleon to understand what it meant.

“Hey! Peril, don’t touch my car!”

But it was too late. The man already had his sleeves pushed up above his elbows, exposing strong forearms, and he was bending down to take hold of the Jaguar’s undercarriage. Napoleon sighed in relief that he wasn’t grabbing the bumper. Then he just stood beside the angry Russian with his hands on his hips, looking at his agitated neighbor with a sort of misplaced compassion... or maybe pity.

“Peril, you  _can’t_  lift a car with-“

He stopped his patronizing speech when the front wheels of his car easily separated from the side walk and defying the laws of gravity and logic - moved together with the Russian a few steps sideways, unblocking the driveway. Napoleon was too stunned to react even when his precious vehicle had been unceremoniously dropped back down in the middle of the street with a loud thud and a pitiful wail of its abused suspension.

“Close your mouth, Cowboy or you’ll catch flies.”

Two seconds later the old Porsche was out of the driveway leaving Napoleon choking in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

He coughed, finally closing his mouth and went back to his living room feeling so confused and out of his game like… well, like NEVER before.

 

TBC.


	2. Love is blind -- but not the neighbours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katherine_Adhara and lily - Thaks for comments! Here's some more...
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter BETA edited by TawnyPixie. May the force be with you, Pixie!

 

_**Love** _ _**is blind** _ _**–** _ _**but not the** _ _**neighbors.** _ _**(Mexican proverb)** _

His neighbor had no friends, no girlfriends and, apparently, no life. Napoleon would know if he had. Not that he was paying particular attention to him. He was just observant.

He wasn’t even home all that often, but he still knew about Mr Stevens’ super-secret love affair with his secretary, and about Mrs Peterson's little problem with gambling. He even knew that her 16-year-old daughter was pregnant, something the girl’s parents would probably discover pretty soon themselves. The point is, Napoleon was a spy and he just noticed things. He knew how to pay attention to details and find the things that helped him figure a person out.

Still, he had no idea how to figure out Peril and he knew close to nothing about the intriguing man. Not even his freaking hair color!

That’s why he was sitting in his office long after he had been dismissed, checking the man’s background for at least the fifteenth time this month and still finding nothing.

Illya Kuryakin – Napoleon had to bribe the postman to find that name out - seemed to be a suspiciously boring individual, with no real background or connections. The picture in his files was black and white, and his folder remained frustratingly empty. Napoleon followed him a few times and saw him enter the charity fundraising organization where the man supposedly worked. Luckily it was in the same building as Del Floria’s tailor shop so Napoleon started to leave his dry cleaning there regularly just to cover his self-assigned mission.

Needless to say, Illya Kuryakin didn’t strike Napoleon as a charity worker. If not for his awfully unapproachable personality the man surely could be a supermodel. But charity? Really? With the deadly aura and frightening demeanor he presented to the world Napoleon wouldn’t be surprised if the man turned out to be a serial killer! The more he watched the man the stronger his conviction about his shady (at best) background.

He went to the office by Del Floria's every day, as if he really worked there. In Napoleon's opinion it would make much more sense if he pretended to work at the Masque Club, which was in the same building. He could pretend to be a bouncer or he could simply do the striptease. Honestly Napoleon had no idea what kind of people frequented The Masque Club. For a moment one completely uncalled for image of Illya dressed in black leather popped up in Napoleon’s head, distracting him momentarily.  Anyway,  the club was strictly 'members only' and despite countless tries Napoleon still couldn’t manage to get a card.

Illya had a card. Napoleon had seen him use it once.

Sadly, now that his shoulder wound had healed Napoleon was spending more time on missions and it unnerved him that he had no time for his new hobby. After some time spent not getting anywhere with his investigation he had almost given up. But when the man suddenly appeared on his doorstep without any warning whatsoever, well, his appearance made dropping this little mission simply impossible.

"Solo, what are you doing here again?" Sanders’ raspy voice caught Napoleon by surprise. His superior saw him doing his little research after hours twice before but somehow he was not impressed by his protege's initiative.

At all.

"Sir... " Napoleon still needed to convince his boss that his suspicions regarding the Russian were strongly founded on solid facts!

"I was just finishing my paperwork." Or he could just lie.

"I hope this paperwork does not concern your Russian neighbor."

"Not at all, Sir. Why would you even think that?" Solo not only smiled but even laughed a bit at the unimaginable idea.

"Because you have his picture displayed on your screen. Unless you’re just nursing a secret crush I suggest you stop it right now." Damn. He forgot about the stupid picture.

"Sir, what if he is a spy or..."

"Or DROP IT, Solo or I'll drop you where I picked you up."

Now that kind of reaction was a surprise. Sanders often went out of his way to make Napoleon's life more difficult, but not like that. This seemed more serious than their usual banter and threats of sending Napoleon back to jail. This was like... like there was something more about this whole case. It just cemented Napoleon's conviction that he  _was_ right after all. Naturally he didn’t let the man know that he knew. He simply turned off his computer and left. 

…

Solo was pretty sure that if he could only get into his neighbor's house for five minutes, he would gain tons of evidence to prove his theory.

He just wasn't sure which one. He had quite a few theories ranging from Illya being a hit man, murderer or international criminal, to him being a KGB agent or a Nazi spy, to being either a result of some gruesome experiments which enhanced his strength, or simply an alien.

Since Napoleon doubted that going to Sanders claiming that his Russian neighbor was from Mars would get him anywhere but his old prison cell, he needed to think of another plan of action.

…

Somehow Napoleon was not surprised that there was no "Welcome" mat in front of Illya's door. There was a doorbell but after pressing it and not hearing anything at all the CIA agent tried traditional knocking.

Needless to say that it was much more polite than Illya's banging on Napoleon's door the day before. He sighed remembering the walking fury in a golf cap demanding his car keys, and his heart fluttered in excitement and anticipation.

It took a moment but the door finally opened revealing the familiar scowling face, fierce eyes, and blond mane.

Blond.

So, he was blond. Napoleon couldn't help but smile because somehow he didn't really expect that. It turned out to be a pleasant surprise, in a way. A strange, kind of unsettling way, but still pleasant.

"What do you want, you creep?" Was apparently Illya's way of welcoming guests. Or just Napoleon.

"Hello, Peril, how's your day?"

"What are you doing here, Cowboy?"

The Russian crossed his arms over his broad chest and waited like a sentinel guarding access to his kingdom.

"Why did you call me a creep?"

"Your smile was creepy." Napoleon tilted his head to one side trying to think of the actual thing he was going to say before he had been insulted so... unexpectedly soon.

“I think your doorbell is not working.”

“I cut it off. Had enough of irritating people coming to sell things.”

“Yes. I noticed you don’t like those after you broke one on my mail box.” The Russian’s face twitched nervously and his fingers started tapping his thigh.

“I think you noticed sooner. Anyway, he was trespassing. You are too.” He hissed through clenched teeth.

“Easy, Peril. I didn’t come to talk about a boy you hadbeaten to a pulp.”

“I didn’t mean to. He had soft bones.”

“Soft bones? You mean he was not supposed to fall apart after you threw him into your dear neighbor’s mailbox?”

The Russian seemed to look for some reasonable explanation, opening and closing his mouth few times, only to finally hiss out, “Yes.”

Napoleon briefly considered continuing this discussion to maybe find out what  is wrong with Illya’s head but he had a plan to follow.

"You broke my car."

The Russian frowned and stood even taller, his feet apart, ready to fight.

"I did not."

"Yes, you did. You threw it into the street…," Napoleon swung his hand dramatically gesturing toward the street behind his back, "and now it's broken."

He made sure to tinker a little under the hood just to make sure the engine really stopped working.

"I did not  _throw_  your car." The Russian paused and added. "It's too heavy." Like Napoleon could have any doubts that the monster  _would_  throw it if only he could. "I just moved it aside. I didn't break anything."

"You picked it up! And you dropped it in the street. And before you even start on that, my car is not soft. It wasn’t made to be thrown around. Just like people by the way!"

"You sound like a lunatic. I only lifted the rear part and I just moved it aside. Can't break from that. You broke it."

Napoleon scoffed, like he could not believe the Russian's words. He honestly was surprised that the man had figured it out so soon.

"I did not.  _You_  did, and I demand you fix it."

For about a minute they were glaring daggers into each other's eyes. Illya's were blue. Icy blue, like a clear sky over frozen tundra on a sunny day.

"Stop smiling, Cowboy. You seriously creep me out." Illya unceremoniously put one big, warm hand on Napoleon's chest and pushed him out of his way, slamming the door shut behind him. "Fine. I will look at your damn car."

Napoleon stared dumbly at the tall lean figure heading to his own driveway. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the blond hair slightly ruffled by a subtle breeze, black turtleneck clinging nicely to a toned back, and too-short trousers covering perfectly sculptured-...

"Cowboy?!"

He hurried after his neighbor to catch up just as Illya was already popping the hood of the Jag and bending over the greasy engine. Napoleon looked up at the sky in search of some distraction, trying to ignore the Russian mumbling something about dumb Americans and their luxury cars.

"You tried to tinker with it.”

Napoleon swallowed hard. His little sabotage could not only anger the monstrous Russian but also let him know that Napoleon suspected him… of so  _many_  things.

“No...?”

By the way Illya snorted Napoleon doubted that his lie was believable, but still Illya didn’t stop fiddling with all the little dirty cables and pipes... his blond bangs falling enticingly over his forehead. 

"I need a socket wrench. Seven. No, eight."

That was what Napoleon had been waiting for! He couldn't believe that it actually worked but he wasn’t going to complain.

"I don't have any tools."

The Russian straightened up suddenly bumping his head on the hood. It looked painful. He cursed in Russian and turned to face Napoleon.

"How can you not have a simple socket wrench?"

He had grease on his left cheek, right beside his mouth. His mouth... it seemed to form a permanent pout. And it looked… stubborn. How a mouth could look stubborn Napoleon, didn’t know. But Illya’s did.

"Hey! Cowboy!" He sounded frustrated. Well, more frustrated than normal. "Are you dim-witted, or just deaf?"

"I'm not dim-witted. I just don't own any tools. It's not like I would use them anyway."

"'Cause you are dim-witted." was said so quietly that Napoleon wasn't sure if he actually heard it or if it was just his imagination. Illya looked a bit resigned at this point and he rubbed his hand across his forehead, leaving another black smudge on his temple.

"Look, Cowboy. There is a tool box in my garage. Just bring it here."

Bingo!

Napoleon shrugged and tried not to look too enthusiastic as he practically skipped to Illya’s house.

First he quickly headed to the living room, which turned out to be almost empty. No TV, no carpet, just an old couch which was probably bought together with the house. There was also  an old bookshelf, which surprisingly held some books, but all in Russian. Napoleon quickly ran up the stairs, dashing into one room after another, leaving bugs in every available spot. Not finding any bodies, or compromising materials proving Illya's murderous past or alien origin, Napoleon sighed in disappointment and went back downstairs to the garage.

The toolbox was easy to find in the neat, almost empty place, and it wasn't even dirty. Which was bad because Napoleon was looking forward to complaining about it being greasy and ruining his suit... Now he felt almost offended by the stupid box not being what it should be!

"You got lost in there, Cowboy?"

"I had to use the bathroom."

To his surprise the other man just shook his head and impatiently took the box from him. He was playing it cool, Napoleon had to give him that. He acted almost like he had nothing to hide in that house. Which was an obvious bluff, Napoleon had no doubts about that. The man was just really good, cool, and collected. He was expertly fiddling with the wrenches and hex keys, and soon everything was back in the box, and Illya was standing in front of him with an outstretched hand.

"Keys?"

Napoleon handed him his car keys and raised one eyebrow upon hearing the familiar roar of his beloved vehicle. It hummed peacefully for a moment, once or twice roaring with excitement at added overdrive. Then Illya killed the engine and stepped out of the car. He took the American’s hand in his and turned it palm-up before dropping the keys back into it.

"It's working now. But it wasn't broken because of me."

"Like hell it wasn't!"

"OK, if I was the one to break it, then how did you get it to your driveway?"

"I…” Oops. “I actually don't have an answer to that."

Illya snorted with a hint of actual amusement in his voice.

"Now you owe me for fixing your car."

It was so hard to not smile at this infuriating and confusing man. "Alright…”

As the old art of war teaches: He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.

“How about a dinner?"

"Dinner?"

The blond's tone sounded so incredulous that Napoleon could as well say 'Ponies'.

"Yes, dinner. You know, food, drinks... conversation if you feel wild enough..." Illya wasn't taking his teasing too well because he was already rolling his eyes, picking up his tool box, and starting to leave.

"Wait, Peril. Look, I love to cook and judging from those take-out boxes spilling from your trash can, you don't.

"So you were going through my trash?"

Napoleon rubbed his forehead.

"Give me two hours and I'll prove to you that I can cook as well as you can fix cars."

"Two hours?” Was that a smirk dancing on those stern lips? “I fixed your car in two minutes."

"Well, cooking takes time. If you only have two minutes, I can make you a piece of toast but I will not sign it with my name." Now Napoleon was truly offended on behalf of his cooking.

"Fine. I need shower. I come by later. The food better be good." Then either the heavens opened or Illya actually smiled. Napoleon was too blinded to tell.

“And it better not be poisoned.”

Solo just grinned and wondered if a normal poison would do anything to take down the gigantic Russian.

 

TBC


	3. Serve your neighbours as you would be served yourself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a date. 
> 
> ....  
> Katherine_Adhara, GaryDeMarie , It (Superherolover2332) and PlanB thank you so much for the comments! :D

**Serve your neighbours as you would be served yourself. (Japanese proverb)**

Napoleon rushed toward the kitchen with joyful spring in his step, stopping dead suddenly when he caught his reflection in the hallway mirror. To his absolute horror he had a dreadfully idiotic grin plastered to his otherwise very handsome face. He quickly remodelled it into a confused frown.

What had just happened was not a part of the plan.

He was not supposed to invite his possibly alien and probably murderous neighbour to his home, not to mention cook for him! The said neighbour was not supposed to actually fix Napoleon's car, and finally Napoleon was not supposed to react to the freaking male's attention the way he did. 

He gathered his wits as quickly as his confused mind allowed and calmly turned to the living room. There he poured himself two fingers of scotch, not bothering with ice and gulped it down. After that he took a deep breath and repeated the procedure.

Finally, he sat down, before his head managed to start spinning.

The original plan was get into his neighbour's house to gather some intel, so... He grabbed his equipment and turned on the receiver of his radio. He switched through the channels trying to catch something incriminating, or at least remotely suspicious, on transmissions from the bugs he'd hastily parcelled through Illya's house but there was nothing... Just like there had been nothing blatantly suspicious in the man's house. Kuryakin was good. He obviously knew how to cover his tracks. Napoleon underestimated him expecting to find something obvious, like a gun, or some secret documents in Illya’s bedroom, maybe a dead body in a closet or, in the very least some dirty dishes in the freakin' sink. But, of course, there was nothing of the sort, because Illya was a  _professional._  Now Napoleon was almost certain that he had crossed paths with a particularly skilled and dangerous individual.  
True, his place was clean literally and lyrically... but it was obvious that it was all just a facade.

Because there had to be something wrong with that broody bastard who could throw a car across a street and keep a scowl on his face for nineteen minutes straight, and yes, for Christ sake, Napoleon  _had been_  counting when Illya was washing his car last weekend!

For a moment he started to wonder if Peril scowled in his sleep, but where this particular thought took the CIA agent was highly uncalled for, so he stopped thinking, drank some more scotch and went to the kitchen.  
  
There, in his domain, he moved without having to think about it at all. He simply did his magic. He found some good beef in the fridge and fresh shrimps. Nice. He already felt inspired. He grabbed a lemon, garlic, Worcestershire sauce, some Cajun spices, and lots of butter and started to work with absolute passion and abandon on New Orleans Shrimps, and beef Burgundy.

Once every few minutes though, he needed to actually remind himself that there was no reason to feel so giddy. It wasn't like he scored a date with a beautiful woman or anything like that. But his emotions were boiling like that faithful night when he was fifteen and losing virginity to a woman of 35. He was nervous, and distracted and confused... He couldn't understand why his stomach was in knots, or why his mouth formed that silly smile every time he let himself relax. It was silly. The dinner was nothing special. It was just… a meal consumed in a company of that tall, handsome and probably very dangerous neighbour of his… The one who looked like an Adonis and smelled like a freaking aphrodisiac.

 _That_  neighbour.

That very rude one, who not only never even introduced himself, but also came uninvited to Napoleon’s house demanding things and scowling… boorish Russian.

Napoleon put the dish into the oven and moved upstairs to make himself presentable for the evening. About an hour later when he was clean, dressed casually but elegantly at the same time, smelling nicely of his most expensive cologne, he reminded himself once again that he didn’t have a date and that all this effort was completely unnecessary… He almost changed into some jeans and t-shirt, but he realized he didn’t own any of those, so... Completely defeated he went to open the door still wearing a three piece suit, and mentally planning to go shopping for casual clothes.

Illya wasn’t banging on his poor door this time and he only rang twice. Napoleon peeked out, just in case Illya decided to bring a squad of assassins to rub out that nosy guy next door… He seemed to be alone though. And even now standing alone on Napoleon’s doorsteps he had that deep frown on his face. He had something in his hands so it was still possible that he brought a weapon of mass destruction or something. Napoleon bravely took that risk and let him in enjoying how the scowl was instantly replaced by a teasing smirk, which really suited Peril a bit too well.

“You changed clothes?”

“Yes well, I usually do when I expect to have a guest for dinner.”

Illya removed his leather jacket and it turned out that the Russian owned jeans and a t-shirt.

“Now I feel under dressed.”

“Shut up, Peril." He turned and headed toward the kitchen. "And leave the bomb outside.”

The alleged alien chuckled softly following in his footsteps. Napoleon decided he kind of liked the other man’s voice.

“It’s not a bomb, Cowboy. It’s a dessert.”

Aha! Poison then. Napoleon turned to face his guest and raised an eyebrow.  
“You’ve made a dessert?”

“No. Then it really would be dangerous. I went to Mrs. Tucci’s around corner. It’s... strawberry.... how do you call it? Shortcake?”

Napoleon almost tipped over but his face split in a grin.

“Really? It’s my favourite.”

“I know. She told me.” Illya resumed following Napoleon to the kitchen not expecting  the shorter man to suddenly turn around and face him. 

“Wait. Are you saying that you actually asked Mrs. Tucci about my favourite cake?” He was still grinning like a loon. Something dangerously warm swelled in his chest at the thought that Illya had made an effort to find out about his favourite dessert and please him. He beamed at his guest like 

Another scowl was his answer.

“Not exactly. She was surprised that I wanted something sweet and asked if I had a date. I laughed and told her about you breaking your car and not even having any tools, not to mention not knowing how to replace a simple screw…” He was gesticulating trying to show that he probably told Mrs. Tucci everything about their dinner arrangement not leaving any place for speculation about speculation about the character of their meeting. For some reason it unsettled Napoleon slightly but he squashed the negative feeling and decided to simply enjoy the evening, like he always enjoyed everything he could.

And the evening  _was_  enjoyable.

At first Illya was a bit stiff and that ever present anger was still lingering in his voice, his moves and general mood. But it was just the way he was. It was a part of him and it was not as foreboding as it seemed. He sat straight like a board, and his manners were impeccable, but he ate quickly, not letting himself to enjoy it. Still, it was clear that he absolutely loved Boeuf Bourguignon, which was a relief since it required four pan deglazings and was really possible to make at such a short time only because Napoleon was really damn excellent cook and had done it about billion times before.

Illya also seemed to be impossibly serious, but still could easily make Napoleon laugh, which surprised the hell out of him the first time it happened. When he relaxed a little more he turned out to be insufferable. He was teasing Napoleon mercilessly, making fun of him and his posh lifestyle. What was worse, he did it with wit and humour so disarming that Napoleon found himself laughing helplessly at his own expanse more than once. Later he still tried to pretend he was offended but Illya didn't buy it even for a second and Napoleon couldn’t blame him.

Of course, Napoleon remembered his mission too, so he asked the Russian about his job and eagerly listened about the charity organization where Peril was supposed to be employed. (Napoleon still had his doubts about that, even if his attitude was mellowed considerably by devouring his favourite cake.) The organization worked practically all over the world stepping in where it was needed the most. Illya's description of their general activities was still kind of vague but after taking seconds of the strawberry goodness Napoleon was willing to consider that maybe Illya was just trying to not bore him with mundane details of his work.

So, in return Napoleon lied to him about his own supposed job as antiques dealer, describing it just as vaguely, and they had a quite pleasant conversation about their fake identities pretending to be just two normal guys talking about work. Of course, the American had no doubt in his mind that the 'charity worker identity' was nothing more than a nicely wrapped up lie, but between the lines Napoleon managed to get a few facts about Illya. The man liked to eat and his education was pretty much science-related. Napoleon couldn't pinpoint what it was exactly but he was getting there! Also Illya didn't have any living parents and hadn't been to his Motherland in quite a long time.  
  
Finally, the man was obsessed with his watch. Napoleon learned that one the hard way.  
  
As soon as the brunet noticed how the Russian's right hand squeezed over his left wrist from time to time he didn't wait and snatched the watch at the first given chance. It took Illya about three seconds to realize it was missing.

“My watch!”

It also took Napoleon no more than that to realize that what he had done was a mistake, and that he would never do it again. It wasn't Peril's anger (or more like fury) that made him so adamant about that resolve. No, the anger came later. What truly moved Napoleon to the point of seriously regretting his silly joke was Illya's face in that short moment he realised his priced possession was gone, when he still thought that maybe he had somehow lost it. His eyes grew so wide and looked so helpless it almost made Napoleon's heart stop. The usually scary Russian looked as if the ground had been suddenly pulled from under his feet. Napoleon instantly returned the watch, not wanting to see that pained expression on his neighbour's face ever again.

Even when Illya grabbed his lapels and shook him like a rag doll, the spy felt like he deserved it and didn't protest when Illya pressed him down into the sofa.

"I'm sorry. It was supposed to be a joke. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

He was reciting the words in a calm voice, as if trying to calm a wounded animal, while Illya quickly put his watch back on. The CIA agent wasn't afraid of Illya even when the pair of impossibly strong hands grabbed his collar and pushed him down. The taller man was towering over him, keeping him immobile and uncomfortable, his eyes shooting lightings, but Napoleon wasn't afraid. Not of his anger at least. He was more afraid that Illya would leave.

Napoleon was on his back, his right foot on the floor, left leg bent and still on the couch. Illya was bent over him, positioned between his spread legs, supported on his right knee, which was brushing the American's bottom.

"It is my father's watch." Illya hissed the words like it was an explanation to everything. And it kind of was, even if Napoleon didn't really get it. He loved pretty things, especially expensive ones but he had never been emotionally attached to anything in particular. He had the same attitude toward people too, so he couldn't really understand what made Illya so mad. The watch was old, and looked cheap and pretty ugly. But apparently those things didn't matter in the Russian's eyes. He valued things for other reasons and qualities. He probably had the same attitude toward people too. It made Napoleon feel kind of shallow, so to make himself feel a little better he concentrated on enjoying the situation. Illya’s knee was still pressed against his bottom, so even the slightest movement could easily cause friction. Napoleon decided to do it before he could talk himself out of it.

Illya blushed and instantly let him go, retreating quickly to the far end of the couch, to Napoleon’s unhidden amusement.

He was still grinning at his guest when suddenly his tongue slipped on the scotch he was sipping and asked the question that was lingering on the back of his mind for quite a while now.

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

He froze when he realized what he had said, but Illya just shrugged.

"No."

And then the spy's tongue slipped again in a heartbeat, almost like it couldn't wait to spit the next words out.

"Me neither."

He wanted to die, but as it would be extremely rude to commit a suicide in front of his guest, he just gulped the rest of his drink down and finally shut up.

"Yes, I know. You have a certain reputation, which I have reasons to believe is well founded. Maybe I should call you Casanova instead?" 

Normally hearing a comment like that from another man Napoleon would be elated! Now he wasn't, so something was not normal. He just didn't know what. But he was surely  far from being elated or even comfortable with the subject. It made a bile rise in his throat. He wanted to deny it, to convince Illya that it wasn't like that. But it was, so he had no arguments. Illya lived right next to him and even if he was keeping to himself (like he had something to hide, mind you) he still surely couldn't miss all those women constantly coming and going.

Napoleon didn't even know why in the world he felt the need to lie to Illya about his love life of all things. It was absurd, and he felt trapped.

The Russian must have sensed his discomfort though and mercifully changed the subject. Napoleon couldn't believe he was the one to start it in the first place. 

Except for that one stupid incident, the evening was wonderfully pleasant. The CIA agent couldn't remember when was the last time he laughed so sincerely. It was refreshing and felt so normal and so right, that when Illya said he should go Napoleon felt painfully disappointed. 

"Already?"

"It's almost midnight."

"What!?"

"It's midnight, Cowboy. I have to get up early."

"Right... Well yes… me too. But, well... look at that. Midnight? Are you sure?”

Illya's right hand circled his left wrist, almost protectively rubbing over his watch.

“Quite sure, Cowboy. Don’t anger me again.”

“Didn’t even think of it, I swear.“ He walked Illya to the door using every piece of art on the walls as a reason for stalling to talk about them. “I forgot it's not Friday..."

"Yes, I need to go." He didn't sound like he wanted to leave though.

"The chariot is waiting?"

Illya snorted. "You're hardly prince charming, Cowboy."

"Don't be so sure. Besides you don't look like a Cinderella either and my joke wasn't really all that good. Sounded better in my head."

"It's fine. I'm tired too. Goodnight." He did look tired, his blond hair slightly messed up, droopy eyes and slowed movements... adorable.

"Goodnight, Peril..."

It felt awfully a lot like a brilliant date but those usually ended in Napoleon’s bed. Honestly, his actual dates were never even half that fun. They were mostly just a mean to get what he wanted later. Now, he wanted to tell that to Illya. Not the part about his dates being less interesting, but that he had really great time and that they should do it again sometime… preferably soon.

But, it would've been even more creepy than his lingering looks and unexpected smiles and he didn’t want to scare his neighbour off. Because even if Peril probably wasn’t an alien after all, he still seemed more interesting than anyone Napoleon had a pleasure to meet in some time.

  
Very long time. 

TBC 

Sorry, it's short.


	4. Love your neighbour but don’t pull down the fence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PlanB, tofujelly, Hidden_Pineapple, drumbedrum, isa  
> \- thank you for your comments and sorry for making you wait.  
> melissen

**Love your neighbour but don’t pull down the fence**  (Chinese proverb)

Logically, Napoleon expected that getting to know his neighbour better would appease his curiosity and dispel that enchanting aura of mystery around the man. He hoped it would bring him a bit of a blessed peace of mind and allow him to move on with his life.

Well, it didn't.

When his neighbour was involved things very rarely (if ever) happened the way Napoleon expected them to.  
  
So, he was now more curious about Illya than ever. Even the smallest of details were driving him nuts. The only thing that changed after their dinner was that Illya started to actually respond to Napoleon's 'good-mornings'. Well, ok, maybe he not  _always_  responded verbally but often nodded his head toward Solo after rolling his eyes at his American neighbour's overenthusiastic greetings.

But in general he still ignored Napoleon.

Napoleon tried to ignore him too. Really, he tried, but… he was on a mission in Budapest and for some reason everything there just brought the man to his mind, constantly. When he was placing bugs in his mark’s hotel room he realised he forgot to check the bugs in Illya’s house before leaving. When he was having dinner he ordered strawberry shortcake for dessert, and when he was driving through the town he spotted another Del Floria’s tailor shop! As if that was not enough he then spotted at least five cars in the exact same shade of red as Illya’s and about dozen men wearing golf caps. So he went through the motions thinking of his impossible neighbour and even almost gotten himself killed because of that.

It happened during the shooting, which admittedly could have been avoided, but Napoleon always shoot first and asked questions later. It was very ‘American’ of him – he was told, but Napoleon called it a ‘survival instinct’ instead.  So he shot, even though he maybe shouldn’t have, and then other people also started shooting. Napoleon was running out of bullets but he was doing perfectly fine, until another thing distracted him. It was something brown, in the exact same colour as Illya’s favourite leather jacket. He caught it in the corner of his eye and when he turned to see what it was, he felt searing pain go through his shoulder. If not for some miraculous stray bullet which wiped the shooter in a blink of an eye, Napoleon would have been a goner.

Now he understood what it meant that curiosity killed the cat. He really needed to get less curious about his Russian neighbour.

But it was hard.

Even though Illya pretended to do normal nine to five job, he was almost never home before eight PM and travelled about as much as Napoleon himself or more. That is why Napoleon instantly gotten curious when he spotted Illya’s car entering the driveway at 5:30pm one day. He bolted out of the house before he could even think of an excuse to bother his grumpy neighbour. He tried to wave but his shoulder, even though it was just grazed by the bullet, still hurt and so, he had to put it all in his smile.

"Hello, Peril!" He couldn't help but smile even more brightly and unapologetically at Illya's frown.

"What do you want, Cowboy?"

"Why, can't I merely come to say hello to my favourite neighbour?"

"What do you want _from me,_ then?"

“That’s why you’re my favourite, Peril. You’re funny.”

Illya’s fingers twitched and Napoleon knew it was a bad sign. They were doing something like that before trying to teach the Avon consultant how to fly. The American needed to make something up and quickly.

"Could I use your lawnmower?"

Illya raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. As long as you don't take it of my lawn."

"Very funny, Peril. Can I borrow it or not?"

“Your ‘pool boy’ mowed your lawn just this morning. What are you up to?”

Shit.

“He did…?”

“Yes. And he used your own lawnmower, something I know only because I don’t have one and asked him if he would lend it to me.”

“Oh… and did he?”

Illya’s face twisted in some parody of a smile. “Actually, Tom mowed it himself while I was at work.”

“Tom? You mean you actually know his name?”

“ _Of course_ I know his name.”

Of course. Every spy would do the background check on his surroundings.

“Really? And do you even know mine?”

There was a pause.

“No.”

“No?” The CIA agent pointlessly tried to hide his irritation. “It’s Napoleon!”

And at that Illya’s face changed, softened and brightened blindingly for a fraction of a second before the man burst out laughing.

For good five minutes the Russian was laughing his ass off, drying tears from his eyes. When his lungs finally forced him to stop and his guffawing turned into something suspiciously sounding like honest to God giggles, he finally tried to speak.

“You serious? Your name is Napoleon?”

“Yes.” Napoleon tried to be angry, or at least to make his tone biting, but he failed spectacularly, because Illya’s face looked happy, unguarded and flushed. And really, Napoleon just wanted to make him laugh like that again.

Too bad that his name could only do it once.

“So, you know my pool boy and you talk to him on a daily basis? And he mows your lawn… That’s just…”

“Very nice of him I think.” There was something calm in Illya’s lazy smile and still lingering amusement in his voice. It made Napoleon’s heart ache.

“Mr Solo!” Tom’s voice just barely brought him back to Earth before Illya’s laughter exported him back to cloud nine once again, because apparently his name could work twice after all.

“Solo? I don’t believe it… And you said I am funny…”

“I hate you.” There was no trace of malice in his voice. Just helpless fondness which Napoleon was quickly learning to accept.

 

U   .   N   .   C   .   L   .   E

 

  
On Friday Napoleon stayed at work, once again long after the agency office working hours, learning about the charity organization located beside Del Floria's (where he now dry cleaned his suits regularly), and about other charity organizations, to maybe surprise Illya sometime with that knowledge...

Then he checked the transmissions from bugs in Illya's stuff. He has been checking them at least five times a day since coming back from Hungary and everything he heard only made him more intrigued.

The bug he had specifically placed in Illya's shower, to check if the man liked to sing, was now transmitting chaotic and often quite rude conversations in Spanish. The one he installed in the Russian's shoe apparently moved to a construction site and stayed there, while the one that was in his bedroom seemed to somehow find its way to some Moroccan marketplace. The only one that gave Napoleon any hope was the one he attached to the phone, but after two days of listening to various conversations of random people he admitted defeat and launched the agency's system to track the locations of each transmitter.

And that was fun... 

Only one of them was even still in the US, the other nine were spread all over the world in Australia, Rome, Morocco, Man Island, Warsaw, Mexico and even Yukon! One was in Berlin, on the wrong side of the wall, but it wasn't the worst one. The major fuck-up price went definitely to the one that was now a small red light blinking on Napoleon's screen in the exact location of the Pentagon, and even though Napoleon knew he should have informed Sanders about it as soon as he realised it was there, he just couldn't find the motivation to even start this kind of conversation with his boss. And of course, not even one single bug was anywhere near Russia, which only made the message clearer.  
  
It was frustrating.  
And challenging.  
And enchanting.  
  
... It was incredibly hard to find a distraction from something so overwhelmingly fascinating.  


U   .   N   .   C   .   L   .   E

 

  
Next week Napoleon spent three days in Florida. The case was simple - in and out, but when he'd gotten back he couldn't shake off the feeling that someone had been in his house. He couldn't prove it, but the lingering sensation was there. The moment he stepped through the door after getting back, he just knew. It was something in the air, not exactly smell, but something prominent, and tangible. It was nothing particular, just _something_ was not exactly right.

Once again he considered sharing his theories (because he immediately cobbled together six different scenarios) and suspicions with CIA but he was pretty sure that Sanders would gut him hearing even one word about the Russian... So instead he swept his house with a bug detector and picked fourteen very small and very high tech transmitters.

He spent the whole day in the agency's lab pestering the staff for information, but those tiny little things he picked in his house turned out to be untraceable. That, of course, wasn't surprising at all. He expected nothing less from a man like Illya Kuryakin. What unnerved him though was that annoying suspicion that he had not find them all. Because fourteen? What kind of number is fourteen...? There had to be fifteen for sure and obviously Napoleon missed one!

He still didn't know what to do with those freakishly small bugs. His tech team now pestered _him_ to give away at least one for further testing. He supposed there would be no harm in complying but, just knowing that they belonged to Illya made him hesitant and he kept all fourteen in a safe box in his own house.

Disabled.

Hopefully…

Theoretically there was a vague possibility that those bugs were someone else’s doing. There was nothing in particular that would allow to trace them back to the Russian, but Napoleon refused to acknowledge that something so neat and brilliant could come from anyone else. Of course if he was wrong Sanders would kill him, but that was neither here nor there.

U   .   N   .   C   .   L   .   E

Another week took him on two missions which almost killed him mentally and physically.

Palermo was great at this time of a year. Azure water, hot sun and fantastic food were perfect distraction from unwanted thoughts about KGB agents obsessed with their fathers’ watches… Except for that one time when he once again let himself get stuck deep in thoughts trying to think of a good enough reason to somehow bait the Russian for another dinner.

“So it is true what they say about you recently.” The woman who was his local contact snapped at him.

 

“I’m sorry?” Napoleon of course had no idea what she meant but he was sure he could charm his way out of any kind of trouble.

“I didn’t believe, but it is true. You settled. You have a girlfriend and don’t sleep with others.” Her accent was funny, Napoleon noticed with amusement, before he realised what the woman implied. And that she was buttoning up her blouse, which she apparently unbuttoned without him realising. When he recovered from shock enough to speak she was already gone.

Now that was… bad. He didn’t want to ruin his reputation only because he was slightly distracted and didn’t notice a beautiful woman throwing herself at him… He had no time for sleeping around because spying on Illya took so much time, and made him feel so exhausted intellectually and physically, that he just didn’t have the energy to go out…

It was kind of sad really. And depressing. But the more he didn’t see Illya, the more he thought about him. He really needed a distraction. NOW.

And finally, it came in a form of another mysterious figure. When bullets flew this time Napoleon was in a really tight spot with someone else’s gun pressed to his temple. That’s when he saw it. It wasn’t a stray bullet this time. It was a man hiding in a distance on a rooftop. Napoleon couldn’t see him but he saw the movement when the men fired at his captor.

Apparently, he had a guardian angel. Which probably meant that Sanders didn’t trust him even that much and had given him a care taker.

From Sicily he went straight to Naples and that case was a total mess. His contact had given him totally wrong information, which almost set him up against a lot of bad people with guns. But, to his surprise (that is if he even could still get surprised with things) all those bad people were already pacified, hanging from ceilings or lying scattered all around the place, either unconscious or dead.  Mostly dead. When Napoleon reached the computer from which he was supposed to copy the data his eyes landed on the movement of the closing window and a shadow disappearing into the night. The computer screen was on, displaying a message that the transfer of data has been completed. Napoleon cleared his throat and copied the data onto his own portable disc.

At least this time he didn’t get shot.

 

Saturday was sunny, hot and lazy. It made Napoleon feel sweaty and restless right from the ungodly early morning when he woke up with his blood rushing south and throbbing deliciously between his legs. 

One cold shower and two coffees later found him in the back yard trying to sunbath. He sighed and turned his eyes to Tommy, currently tending to his pool. He was young and had the most sinful lips, so red and so... plump, and his smile was charming as hell. His British accent went well with his low voice and in general, Tom was sex on legs...

Napoleon wasn't attracted to him in the slightest.

Tom was shorter than Napoleon, wasn't exactly blond, and his accent was all wrong. He couldn't hold his boss' attention for more than three minutes anyway.

Of course  _that_  could be because recently nothing could, unless it was ten feet tall, blond and angry. Even looking at his almost naked pool boy the only thing he could think about was that Illya knew that guy’s name while he didn’t know Napoleon’s.

  
His mental health was in danger. He needed to stop this. He knew he should. That is why, as days passed, Napoleon Solo did his best to _completely_ ignore everything that happened around his neighbour's house.

Not that there was much to ignore, no. Illya was like a robot going on some lame schedule. He went to the gym three times a week and ran a few miles each morning. When he had a weekend off then on Saturday he would go out, usually around ten, to buy food. Then after noon he washed his car. At half past two he usually had dinner in some lousy restaurant or other, and then at six he was in the cinema, watching whatever there was to watch.

If the thought about knowing Peril's schedule so well was in any way disturbing to Napoleon, he sure as hell tried to ignore that too. Like he tried to ignore Illya, who was now splashing water over his car, getting sprayed in the process; his white t-shirt soaked and transparent in the hot midday sun; hair wet and unruly with shiny droplets glistening like diamonds or fresh morning dew…

Napoleon put the binoculars back down on the windowsill and growled. Maybe he should pick a hobby or something? Because this, _this thing_ , it was definitely wrong and unhealthy. Illya Kuryakin was a man. A very handsome one, true, but still... a man. He was not only taller than Napoleon but also  _a lot_  stronger, if the car incident was anything to go by. Getting a punch from this killer machine would be deadly. And even if not, then Napoleon still liked his face and bone structure the way they were: perfect and intact. Besides, the man was aloof and boorish. He had no sense of fashion and didn't drink alcohol! (Napoleon didn't trust people that don't drink.) He was easily irritable and that permanent scowl on his face was off-putting.

After a thought Napoleon decided that he didn’t even like the Russian.  
  
Later when he was standing in line for a ticket to the same movie as Illya he changed his mind. Apparently somewhere on the way he kind of started to like the man a little bit after all…

Not much. Just above buying a dog for the sole purpose of teaching him to piss on Illya’s… place where a doormat should be if he had one.

Which was good, because Napoleon really didn’t want to have a dog and deal with hair on his Persian carpets. He almost bought a cat instead but that nice girl in a pet shop reminded him about two important things. One, he was allergic to cats. And two, he slept with her once, two years earlier, and she was still waiting for him to call. So, Napoleon was content to not buy any pets and not go anywhere near that shop, any time soon, or preferably ever.  
  
Standing in line to buy popcorn Napoleon couldn't help but notice how many admiring looks his neighbour was getting from all the people around and he felt jealousy slowly tug at his guts. It wasn't a surprise. He was possessive and selfish that way. It was in his nature. He couldn't help it, so he embraced it.  He came here to spend a nice evening and nothing would stop him from achieving that goal. When some girl approached Illya with a flirty smile and started to chat him up, Napoleon watched as the giant squirmed, cornered by a petit woman. He was like a huge awkward kid, stuttering and retreating backwards, straight into a wall.

It was hilarious and Napoleon let himself be amused for all about three seconds. Then the jealousy and possessiveness took over and he had enough. 

"Peril!"

His neighbour's blond head turned to see the person calling his name and the look of sheer relief and gratitude on his face was so absolutely disarming and unexpected that Napoleon almost tripped from the force of emotions that hit him like a punch.

"Um, excuse me." Illya’s forced smile was even more awkward than his moves. He apologised to the girl, and had to actually physically push her away to get to Napoleon.

"Well, look at that. What a coincidence!"

Illya frowned.

Oh well… Maybe he didn't believe in coincidences.

"Are you a stalker now, Cowboy?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Peril." Illya relaxed a bit and his mouth twisted up in a corner.

"Then don't follow me around. I've seen you in Del Floria's just this morning."

"So? I was picking up my dry cleaning."

"You have at least three other shops like that much closer to your house."

"But I like Del Floria's best. I think I've been to one of their shops in Rome, and I believe I've seen one in Paris too."

"Yes...." Illya paused with a strange, unreadable expression on his face. "They do have shops in other countries."

“So, Peril, you like films?"

"Obviously. There is so many I still haven't seen and I come here every week."

Napoleon grinned showing the other man his ticket. 

"I'm going to see _Lawrence of Arabia_."

Illya's eyes widened. "Me too!" When he showed Napoleon his own ticket he looked like an excited child for a moment. Then, of course, he frowned again, like he couldn't decide if he should believe this strange plot of events, or kill his neighbour just in case. What were the odds of them meeting accidentally like that? Well, Napoleon would suspect something too if he were in Illya's place. Especially if the Russian really was an undercover KGB agent! 

"Great, let's go. It's starting soon." Napoleon held his breath and bringing up all his boldness he lifted one hand and put it on the Russian's shoulder. The other man seemed to not even notice it so Napoleon left it there leading him to the main room and to the first available seats.  
  
The movie was freakishly long but Napoleon was far from being bored. Illya looked mesmerized, totally taken in by the movie magic. He didn't comment much, but they did exchange few words here and there. Solo enjoyed observing him just as much as Illya enjoyed watching the movie. Or more. Then, suddenly Peril seemed to freeze. Napoleon checked the screen where a Turkish leader was touching Lawrence. Illya was so still and so quiet that Napoleon wasn’t sure if the man was even breathing. None of them said anything after the raped man on the screen had been tossed into the street and picked up by Ali.

Soon Arabs were in Damascus and poor Ali was shedding tears admitting his tormenting love for his white skinned friend. Napoleon didn't expect anything like that to be a part of the picture. He read the book once and remembered how it was received by public, but he never expected to see any of its more controversial aspects depicted on the silver screen.

Oh well, times change.  

But apparently not for Russian KGB agents posing as charity workers. Illya was still sitting beside him silent and tensed, up until 'the end' appeared on the screen. Then he immediately stood up to leave.

"Wait up, Peril."

He did wait, but it was only outside of the cinema in cool evening air. His scowl was reaching some dangerous levels, bordering on being frightening and his fingers were tapping nervously some foreboding war song on his thighs.

"Well that was something. Better than I expected. Different than the book, though."

That seemed to distract Illya, and his eyes widened curiously.

"There is a book about... that?"

"Yes. It's called 'Seven Pillars of Wisdom'. You should read it, Peril. It's good."

"Good? In Russia..."

He never finished the sentence. He didn't have to. Napoleon knew what he meant. Seven years for sodomy. 

"We're not in Russia, Peril. Relax. And come on. I'm starving. I've never seen a movie THAT long."

He put his hand back on Peril's muscled shoulder, this time without any hesitation and led him through the streets to his favourite quiet restaurant to have some unhealthy food and play pool. 

And, as it turned out, to get involved in a brawl. 

“You know Peril, I’m glad I could show you the place before you destroyed it.”

“They started it.”

“You’ve sent four boys to the hospital because one of them sat on a sink, Peril. You won’t get compassion from me.”

“They had…”

“Soft bones. I know, Peril. I know.”

 

tbc


	5. The teeth and the tongue are close neighbours, and yet they sometimes bite each other.

**The teeth and the tongue are close neighbours, and yet they sometimes bite each other. (Somali proverb)**

Louvre was one of _those_ places.

Since getting caught, Napoleon stopped stealing art, sort of as a rule, but not quite. It was more of a precaution, because he wasn’t very fond of his old jail cell. So, these days he tried to avoid thinking about taking beautiful things from museums for his personal amusement. But there were places that made keeping to that resolve very difficult.

And that was Louvre.

There was no other place in the World where so many such marvellous pieces of art were surrounded by so many people so completely unable to appreciate it. It physically hurt Napoleon every time he visited that particular museum and he could swear that some paintings practically begged him to be taken home.

Needless to say, Napoleon was never very good at fighting temptations.

His heart was bleeding. In the good old days he managed to liberate from the former royal palace seven paintings and two bracelets of the Douches of Angouleme.  In his opinion jewellery should never waste away just lying around. The purpose of jewellery was to make people look exquisite. It was not meant to _be_ exquisite themselves! So he took the bracelets only to give them away to some random one night stand. As far as he was aware they were never found and what now glimmered in the afternoon sun on the display was just an impressive replica. Back then he also had his eyes on the crown of Louis XV. It matched his favourite orange bathrobe and he always wanted to wear it on some lazy evenings at home.

But CIA with international joint forces spoiled those plans quite spectacularly by arresting him and Napoleon never got the chance to take it.

…The crown was still there, right in front of his eyes, almost in his arms reach. He shouldn’t have come here. Normally he tried to avoid this place due to its numerous temptations but someone was following him earlier. He managed to lose his tail by 11am but then they were back and since crowded places were always the best to disappear he redirected his relaxed and joyful steps straight to the Louvre.

After a short assessment of the museum’s finest pieces Napoleon turned toward the exit leaving all those temptations behind. He was pretty sure that no one was following him anymore so he left the building whistling some merry tune and entertaining thoughts about coming back at night to snatch Shchedrin’s Terrace at Sorrento. He would give it to Illya as a souvenir. He could already see it. His grumpy neighbour would hang it in his living room to scowl every day at the painting’s obvious decadence, while having no idea that it was not only a masterpiece by his fellow-countryman but also one of just four Russian paintings in the Louvre… That adorable idiot would never know that, and Napoleon found the thought so exhilarating that after a moment he could not even consider leaving the painting where it was. Luckily, then his eyes caught the sight of the familiar brown leather jacket disappearing around the corner in General Lemonnier Avenue.

He was used to catching glimpses of people reminding him of Illya all the time and he learned to ignore them somehow, knowing it was not healthy to obsess over the other man. Especially that Illa seemed to finally start to warm up to Napoleon. Scaring him off now would be obvious waste of all his previous efforts to get to know him better.

But that figure seemed also almost as tall as Illya, so Napoleon couldn’t help but rush across the street after the familiar figure. It was probably just some poor idiot forced by Sanders to follow Napoleon around. It was unnerving.

His exquisite knowledge of Parisian streets and shortcuts allowed him to cross path with his tail no longer than five minutes later. He left the dark corner he was hiding in to purposely walk straight at the other man with a nonchalant swagger in his step. He almost fell onto his face out of pure shock recognising the person he cornered.

“Peril?”

“Cowboy…? Finally. I thought I saw you twice today but I didn’t get a chance to catch up with you.”

“You… it was you?”

“I don’t know. What do you mean?” lllya walked up closer to Napoleon, looking him over curiously, with something that could be concern expressed in a slight frown of his lips.

“Someone has been following me.”

“Well, I saw you this morning. I followed you. Hoped you would stop for a coffee somewhere. Just wanted to say hello.”

“Really? Couldn’t you just, I don’t know, call out to me?”

“Sure. Because running around Paris calling ‘Napoleon’ is such a great idea.”

Napoleon snorted.

“I doubt they psychiatric wards would hold you up. Besides you never call me by my name.”

“A-ha… because calling a cowboy would be so much better…”

Napoleon couldn’t fight a grin that was forcing its way onto his face. It was his fourth day in France and he was already missing his friend… um… his neighbour.

They weren’t friends, by any means. But Napoleon wouldn’t really mind if they were. Illya’s dry humour and uncompromising ways were endearing and entertaining. Even if it meant Illya could get them in trouble faster than Napoleon could say his name.

“So, Peril, how long are you staying in Paris?”

“Not long. Have to attend a charity event tonight. Then go home.”

“Something fancy?”

“I think. I hate those.”

“Well I love things like that."

“Really? Want to come with me?”

At those words Napoleon's heart fluttered for some unfathomable reason. 

"God I wish I could join you, but I can't. I have work to do… I have an art exhibition tonight."

“Too bad.  I hate to be alone on those. "

“Somehow I doubt you would have trouble finding more suitable company. Like, for example that lovely lady checking you out not very subtly from behind her huge sunglasses.”

Napoleon wasn’t surprised that Illya didn’t turn around to take a look at the lady and check if she was cute. It was so Illya. Napoleon would look, even if just out of pure curiosity, if nothing else. But the Russian wouldn’t. He would not waste his time and attention on something that was of no interest to him.

And Napoleon was beginning to think that women in general were not something Illya was interested in.

That queer thought made something in the American’s chest throb, catching him off guard. He quickly squashed the feeling, dismissing it together with the outrageous thought. Illya surely loved women. He just wasn’t interested in ogling strangers, or flirting with some random girls he didn’t know… Which should be strange, because Napoleon was pretty sure that all men did that…

Anyway, with Illya it wasn’t strange or unsettling at all. It actually seemed like it should be like that. Like Illya was above all meaningless things, because he was better than that.

"If she's so lovely,  why don't you invite her to the exhibition?"

"She was trying to get your attention not mine.  Of course, she would probably accept the invitation to get your name and number. "

"You are ridiculous,  Cowboy. "

At some point they started to walk down the street toward the park, and soon found themselves seated in a quiet café, side by side talking nonsense, with Napoleon basking in the afternoon sun, while Illya hid himself in the shadow of conker trees.

In that serene moment Napoleon had trouble imagining that this handsome man at his side could be anything else than what he claimed to be – a person dedicated to his work of helping people. And it made him wonder if he was right about Illya.  Maybe the Russian's behaviour wasn’t really that alarming and suspicious. Maybe it was something else that caught Napoleon’s attention and awaken that tormenting curiosity about the man… The American wanted to know everything about him, but his neighbour was not revealing much and that was only encouraging the American to push harder.

Surprisingly, it was while discussing physiology of kangaroos when Illya finally, though accidentally, said something about himself. He admitted to visiting Australia in the past. Catching Napoleon’s curious eyes he realised what he said and stiffened slightly in his seat.

“Really, Peril? What were you doing in Australia?”

 It took a moment too long for Illya to answer and it was enough for Napoleon’s instincts to kick in again, and make him wonder what the other man had to hide.

“I was… It was for Olympic games… in ‘56.”

“You went to the Olympics? As a fan?”

Again, Illya paused, weighting his words carefully. Their eyes met for a moment and Napoleon could clearly see the moment when Ilya gave up, and resigned himself to telling the truth.

“No…”

“Then what… you participated?” It wasn’t hard to imagine Illya as a sportsman, getting gold medals for swimming or running… It would be a sight to behold. He would be magnificent.

“Yes…” Illya looked almost as uncomfortable talking about it as he was while talking to that woman in the cinema.

“Really? Did you get a medal?”

“…yes. But as I said, kangaroos-“

“For what? What were you doing? Was it swimming?” Illya seemed to sink into his chair, lower and lower, with Napoleon’s every word.

“Wasn’t swimming. Will you drop it?”

“No.” How could he?! It was too exciting.

“It was sambo… and judo.”

The American could only imagine how unattractive he must have looked with his jaw dropped, but Illya wasn’t even looking at him, so could live it down.

“Judo…? You know judo? What’s your level?”

“4th dan…. I stopped training…”

“It’s a black belt…”

“I don’t train anymore.”

“Why?”

“There was … incident… I told them they should not send me. But I was Russian sambo champion since 1953 so they sent me anyway. Made me participate in judo too… I shouldn’t have gone there.”

“What kind of an incident…?”

At first only a heavy sigh was his answer,  but then...

“Like the other night…in that bar…” Illya gave him a brief pained look before he turned away again. “Three men from German team… angered me. Put all three in hospital… Two of them will never do any sports… ever again. Not sure what happened with the third. They never told me… So I stopped asking… I am not allowed to participate anymore.”

That was not what Napoleon expected to hear. At all. He expected an expert lie to cover something mysterious, exciting and maybe even romantic. He didn’t expect to be shocked to the core by the brutal reality of life. With all his inhumane strength and unfair good looks Illya was still a man, a normal human being, with weaknesses like other people. Well, maybe not exactly like other people, but still… Strangely, that crack on Illya’s perfect armour didn’t make Napoleon think about Peril any less. On the contrary, it made him even more interesting. What had he done to those sportsmen didn’t matter to Napoleon but Illya seemed really shaken just from mentioning the episode. He had clearly hurt some people and wasn’t proud of that. Maybe that’s why he was into charity? Maybe that’s how Peril was trying to atone for his sins.

And then there was this mental image created by Napoleon’s hyperactive imagination, of a very young Illya winning a golden medal at Sambo, wearing those ridiculously tiny shorts… or Illya training with a punching bag, giving it hard kicks higher than his own head, or Illya wiping sweat from his face after a won sparring session with some poor unsuspecting soul.

Magnificent.

They talked for hours, until the sun started setting and Illya had to go to work. It was fine. Napoleon had his own agenda too after all.

They met again on the next day when they arrived in their respective cabs in front of their houses.

“I can’t believe it! We were probably on the same plane!” Napoleon was grinning from ear to ear, already approaching the fence between their properties.

“Hello, Cowboy.” One corner of Illya’s lips quirked and his eyes softened in response to his neighbour’s addictive good mood.

“Peril, I actually brought you a souvenir.”

Those words turned Illya once again into that hilarious epitome of awkwardness. He blushed and stuttered making Napoleon worry that he would make a run for it.

“Why? I was there too… You shouldn’t have.”

“Easy Peril. It’s nothing big. I just wanted you to have it.”

Napoleon fished something from his briefcase. It was wrapped in a red paper and tied with a blue bow. He tried to hand it to Illya between the bars of the fence but it was too thick, so he handed it over above with a smirk.

“You know Peril, we have a saying that good fences make good neighbours.”

“Really? In Russia we say that bad neighbours make good fertilizer.”

Few weeks earlier Napoleon would probably feel offended with Illya’s crude joke spoken so seriously. Maybe he would have even taken it for a threat. Now he just laughed heartily. The Russian was so easy to like. It was really difficult to imagine how they used to fight all the time.

Kuryakin opened the package and frowned at the painting in a beautiful old frame.

“So decadent. Thank you, Cowboy. It reminds me of you indeed.”

Napoleon couldn’t help but chuckle again hearing the words he predicted coming from the other man’s incredible lips…

“That from your exhibition yesterday?”

A wave of fondness assaulted Napoleon, growing in his chest, filling his lungs and throat, making it hard to speak.

“Yes.”

Their eyes met and a heavy silence filled the air, sucking up the air to breath and making the atmosphere thick and heavy with things unsaid and unthinkable.

“Thank you… for this. I… I will hang it in my living room… alright?”

“Of course. Perfect.”

“Okay… see you later, Cowboy.”

“Goodbye, Peril.”

After a few more awkward smiles, longing looks and stuttered goodbyes they finally grabbed their suitcases and disappeared in their houses.

They started to meet in the cinema more often - every Saturday to be precise. They had fun together no matter if the movie they watched was good or not. Of course they always had completely opposite opinions about each picture and argued about everything that came to mind, but it was always just a friendly banter, often boarding on total absurd just to keep the quarrel going a bit longer.

…

"Solo!" Sanders' raspy voice roared through the HQ corridor. Judging by the tone it was serious.

"Yes Sir?" Napoleon entered his boss' office and closed the door.

“I just got a call from the Interpol. They say that a  painting is missing from the Louvre. It’s been stolen when you were in Paris.”

“Really? Which one? Mona Lisa?”

“Don’t play with me, Solo. If I ever find out that you took it…”

“Come on, what makes you think I would do that? How would I get it onto the plane? And why would I even risk getting  back to jail?”

“Because you are impossibly arrogant and you think no one will catch you.”

“Sir… I hope it was something  at least as spectacular as Mona Lisa if I am to be accused and-“

“Oh, stop with all the drama. They have no clue who it was. Only I know you were there. And it was some Russian painting.”

“Hmmm, Russian?”

“Exactly. I remember about your latest hobby and I still think you took that painting. Unfortunately I have no time to deal with those things right now. Here's your new assignment." He dropped a manila folder in Napoleon's laps. "How much do you know about THRUSH?"

"Thrush, Sir...? You mean robins?"

Sanders just gave him a bored look, not gracing him even with a proper eyeroll.

"You mean international organization which aims to ruin that already fragile balance between world's most powerful nations?”

Now that earned him an eye roll alright.

“Everything you need to know you'll find in this file. Remember that their influence has no limits. They have their operatives in both Americas, Europe, British Islands, you name it. They're everywhere and they will stop at nothing to reach their goals.”

"You make them sound like a comic book villain underworld."

"In a way it is, but it's real, Solo. Very real. Don't underestimate them. Yesterday they killed three of our agents in Budapest. Our people were supposed to transfer a Russian scientist, Dr Bykov to Spain, where he was supposed to talk about his findings on human parts transplant. Dr Bykov was a student of Vlaimir Demikhov."

"Ah, two-headed dogs stories, Sir?"

"They were not just stories, Solo. You of all people should know better. Anyway, our agents are gone and so is Dr Bykov."

Napoleon sighed. It was fine. He wouldn't mind going on a mission. It's been a while since the last time he had been to Europe. Besides now was actually the perfect time because Illya was gone for a week to do some fund-raising in Bogotá and Napoleon was sick with worry that something would happen to him. He needed a distraction.

Columbia wasn't the most peaceful place and really, he just had bad feelings about it. He tried to convince Peril to stay, but the man was as stubborn as a mule.

So, now he had no objections. He was available. He could go to Budapest....

"So, Solo, your mission is to find him."

Napoleon frowned realising that he had stopped listening at some point.

"Who?"

"Santa Claus! Who do you think?" Sanders huffed and shook his head. They didn't pay him enough for having to deal with insufferable arrogant assholes like Solo.

"Here's a plane ticket to Bogotá. You're leaving in an hour."

"Bogotá, Sir?"

"Read the freakin' file. As I just said, that's where we think they keep him. We have good Intel on it from my trusted friend. And don't fuck it up, Solo. It's a Russian scientist. We misplaced him, we need to find him and give him back in one piece before they go to look for him themselves. Is that clear?"

"Have I ever failed a mission, Sir?"

"Well, we surely gave you good motivation to stick around. How's your new Jaguar?"

"Excellent, Sir. Thank you."

"And Solo, don't bring Santa Claus instead."

Sanders shook his head and kicked Napoleon out of his office.

Solo stood for few minutes in the corridor staring dumbly at the ticket in his hands. A ticket to Bogotá. What were the odds? Maybe he would have a chance to see Illya, but there was a risk of blowing his cover and putting his beloved friend in danger. He didn't waste any more time. He packed some things and left.

A woman was waiting for him at the airport, holding a card with his code name: Jack Davney. She flirted with him quite obscenely and offered to show him the city later. Napoleon was glad that she was the one driving a car. He couldn’t concentrate on anything mission related, constantly wondering about a certain blond giant.

"Do you know of any charity fund raising events?"

"In Bogotá?" Her reaction made Napoleon's insides shake. Where was Illya?

"Well, yes... I've heard something like that... I think."

She shook her head with a charming smile. "I know nothing about charity but I can show you your hotel. We chose the best suite for you, Mr Davney. It's very comfortable."

The woman obviously knew about his reputation and had some plans regarding his stay. Well, she would have to forgive him but he had slightly different agenda this time.

First he patiently listened to everything the woman knew about the man transported via a private airport at night. The place where the man was being kept belonged to some rich man strongly involved politically and criminally. The whole place was heavily guarded, so Napoleon had to quickly develop a plan to get in unnoticed and steal doctor Bykov out of there. Guards switched at 2 am, so he planned his action to start at half past one when the first shift would be tired and sleepy, and get out of there before the next shift’s appearance.

Imagine his surprise when he sneaked up to the fence and discovered a huge hole in the mesh where he was planning to cut out a small entrance. It wasn't there few hours earlier when he was doing the recon. Someone was in his way. Most probably KGB somehow learned about the whole thing and came to take their man back.

Napoleon needed to hurry. CIA's reputation was at stake here. He quickly moved along the building, avoiding beams of search lights. He had a gun with sleeping darts to put the dogs down to sleep, but the dogs weren't there either. He went inside through the door and noticed a truly barbarian job done to the lock which was really pretty easy to pick.

Amateurs.

He stepped into the corridor and followed the trace of dead bodies right up to the metal door where a black clad figure was kneeling silently in front of another relatively simple lock, planting explosives!

Napoleon aimed and pointedly cleared his throat. The figure froze, but did not move. Napoleon noticed how the person's trousers were too short, riding high above his ankles when he knelt. It made him think about Illya and his sinfully long legs. Funny how recently everything made him think about his neighbour...

"Step away from the door." The figure seemed to hesitate but while Napoleon moved closer, the man slowly stood up. He was taller than he seemed while he was kneeling. "Hands up!"

The black clad man raised his hands, but the next thing Napoleon knew was that he was being disarmed and pressed up against a wall.

"Fuck..." Maybe there was a simple way out of this mess... "Look, if you're from KGB we have the same goal. We could work together..."

The other man hesitated but then cleared his throat and answered, voice muffled by the black balaclava.

“Да ... мы могли бы. Но я не КГБ, и мне не нужна твоя помощь.” ( _Yes... we could. But I'm not KGB and I do not need your help.)_

"If that's true then why didn't you shoot me? Or knock me out?"

There was another prolonged silence. The other man, whoever he was, had no idea what to say or do to Napoleon. It was actually hilarious.

 Suddenly they heard a noise and instantly someone was shooting at them. Again, it took a moment for Napoleon to realize that the stranger pushed him to the floor and covered with his own body, hiding them both behind a pillar. Napoleon heard a groan from the Russian. The American gathered his wits and pulled a grenade from his jacket. He chucked it at the enemies and pulled the black clad figure down to the floor. The explosion took out not only the attackers, but also half of the corridor, covering everything in smoke and dust.

"Are you alright?" Napoleon grabbed the other man, looking for a wound, but the man was wearing a vest. The bullet was embedded in his shoulder, underneath the stiff layer of Kevlar.

"You idiot. Why did you cover me, huh?"

Napoleon didn't need help, or saving. He didn't want to be indebted to some stranger who was now standing in a way of his career.

The man was breathing hard, his black mask interfering, and irritating Napoleon. He didn't wait any longer and without thinking just pulled it of the other man's head revealing a very familiar blond mane.

 

 TBC.

Thank you for your attention.


	6. Shut your eyes and your enemy looks just like your neighbour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS: PlanB, lily, eavos, Queen_of_nerds and TawnyPixie !!!!  
> Also, thank you all for kudos!  
> I hope I will be able to update more often now...

 

_“Men think that it is impossible for a human being to love his enemies, for enemies are hardly able to endure the sight of one another. Well, then, shut your eyes--and your enemy looks just like your neighbour.”  ― Søren Kierkegaard, Works of Love_

 

Honestly, he couldn’t say that he was surprised (since he practically lived the idea of Illya being all sorts of suspicious), but when the removed balaclava revealed that mass of familiar blond hair, for the first time in his life, Napoleon was speechless.

“Cowboy, I need to get into that room.”

Napoleon just stared.

Illya pushed him away and gotten back to what he had been doing before the American decided to drop by. The CIA agent watched in some sort of awe as the Russian dropped down to one knee and proceeded to attach plastic to the lock. He wanted to say something but Illya’s legs somehow captured his attention so completely that he forgot what he was supposed to argue about.

Until the lock blew up filling the room with smoke ad dirt once again.

“Peril… I could’ve opened it in two seconds with a hairpin.”

“Yeah? Why didn’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I got distracted by discovering that my neighbour is a KGB agent.”

“I am not KGB. And cut the crap, Cowboy. You knew. You bugged me, I bugged you. You followed me. I followed you-“

“YOU FOLLOWED ME? _When?_ ”

At that Illya gave him a “look”.

 “Are you joking? Budapest, Palermo, Naples, Paris…” He was already turning around and getting into the room.  “You are a terrible spy, Cowboy… Cover me!”

Luckily the agent quickly gotten his shit back together and the next thing he knew, gunshots flew all around and it was mostly his instinct that made him raise his gun and shoot three people in the room. Illya shot two more and moved quickly, getting to a computer which stood on one of the desks. He completely ignored a funny little man tied to a chair.

“Peril? What the hell are you doing? We need to take the doctor and move out.”

“That’s your mission, Cowboy, not mine. I’m taking down this facility. Take Bykov and run.”

Illya’s fingers moved quickly over the keyboard. The mass of data flooding the screen was a complete mystery to the American, but Illya seemed to take it all in with undivided attention.

“You are hurt, Peril. I’m not leaving you here.”

“Don’t be stupid, Cowboy.” He briefly looked away from the computer to meet Napoleon’s eyes and add: “For once.”

Napoleon snorted but it could be at Illya’s joke as well as at his own weird reaction to the other man’s attention. Even if it was brief,  it still left Napoleon a little breathless, with his heart beating just a little bit faster.

Then a muffled sound brought their attention to the still tied and gagged doctor.

“Come on, Cowboy, move!”

“You are hurt. I am not leaving you here.”

Illya's handsome face was twisted in contempt, but his eyes studied Solo curiously.

“In exactly six minutes the power in the other building turns back on and opens the door to the west wing. There is 15 soldiers trapped in there. You have 5 minutes to take Bykov out of here.”

“Well, that’s a shame because….” Napoleon resolutely checked his gun and replaced the empty magazine with a full one. “…as I said, I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Illya growled irritated, picked up his own gun from the table and pointed it at the American.

“Get the hell out of here. NOW!”

“I’m not taking orders from KGB.”

“I’m not KGB.”

 Illya dropped his gun back onto the table and fished something from his jacket. It looked big and heavy. He plugged the thing in and pressed some more buttons. When he finished, he ripped off the casing of the computer and removed the hard drive, securing it quickly in a special case on his back.

Napoleon slowly moved to the third man in the room, and started to remove his bindings and a gag. Illya was still going through the data on the screen. Suddenly he turned around to face the doctor with fury in his eyes and fingers tapping nervously like they couldn’t wait to rip the smaller man apart.

“Did you give it to them?”

The doctor bleached and shook like a leaf. He was too frightened to answer though, so to encourage him Illya picked his gun back up.

“Peril! Don’t. I need him alive.”

“Did you give it to them?”

“I… I….” The man stuttered helplessly.

“Peril, stop it. You frightened him.”

“Good. Make him talk, or I will.” To make his point Illya removed the safety hatch of the gun. Doctor Bykov whimpered comically, and opened his mouth speak, but as he shook, a puddle of urine formed under his bare feet and he made no more sounds.

“Great, Peril! Look what you did! Now he’s in shock. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“With ME?! You’re really crazy, Cowboy! His experiments are wrong, not my anger. Let’s take him out of here. I _will_ make him talk. I’ve got the drive with data. The rest he will tell me. If not I skin him alive.”

Napoleon just rolled his eyes. The Russian was impossible.

“Only if you don’t scare him to death first. How much time do we have?”

“Three minutes.”

They moved quickly out and back the way they came from, through the blasted corridor and out of the building, all the while dragging the catatonic Doctor with them. They were pushing him through the hole in the fence when they saw lights in the west wing of the building.

“The power is back on. Wait.”

“Wait? Are you crazy, Peril? We don’t have time.”

Napoleon grabbed the Russian’s forearm and pulled. He was high on adrenaline and in a ‘mission mode’ but something gave him a pause. It was Illya’s arm. He expected the Russian to shrug him off but Illya didn’t fight Napoleon’s touch.

“A minute, Cowboy. Look. You are going to love this.”

Illya pulled another gadget from his pocket, his right arm still in the American’s clutches.

The thing looked like a small walkie-talkie with just one switch. Illya smiled at his American neighbour and turned on the transmitter. Immediately they heard, and saw, a series of explosions taking down the whole building.

“Hmmm. I admit I did like it. But… Peril, as much I love to spend time with you I think it’s time for me and Dr. Bykov to go.”

Napoleon pointedly took his hands off the other man.

“No way, Cowboy. I need my information.”

“Well, I need my man.” Napoleon awkwardly tried to stop the blush rising to his cheeks at the unfortunate wording. “Alive. Preferably in one piece.”

“I was there first.” Illya was now practically hissing the words through his clenched teeth.

“I killed more people!”

“And they would kill you if not for me. You were in my way. I need information.”

“Look Peril, I am not letting you take him. You’ve broken him already! Give me a break!”

“I am not leaving without the information.”

They stood there staring into each other’s eyes for good two minutes before the Russian noticed how uncomfortably close their faces were, and moved away. Napoleon was glad that he did, because if it were up to the American they would be standing like that until dawn. Illya’s eyes were mesmerising. So bright, but also kind of… lost. And every time Napoleon got a chance to look into their depths he couldn’t ignore how much he wanted to show them a way… help Illya find himself.

But this was certainly not the time or place for things like that. Especially that Illya turned out to be… well, not a charity worker. Who was he really? If he wasn’t from KGB  then maybe T.H.R.U.S.H.? It was so confusing and irritating. Why was he even surprised, if he suspected from the moment he first laid his eyes on his neighbour. Besides, Illya had found his bugs and placed one in the Pentagon! It was obvious that he was some sort of intelligence. Napoleon just couldn’t figure out whose.

“Look Peril, my car is 400 yards away, that way. We should get the hell out of here. I can hear sirens.”

Illya shrugged. “Fine. We need to go somewhere where I can get the answers out of this sadist.”

For the sake of their escape Solo decided to leave it at that; for now. They quickly moved to the car. When Napoleon opened the back door Illya grabbed Doctor Bykov and cuffed him.

“Peril, is this really necessary? He’s scared to death and completely defenceless.”

The only answer he got from the Russian was a snort.

“Give me the keys.”

Now that was too much!

“No, Peril. I’m driving.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my car – for one.  Two – you’ve got shot! And three – you don’t even know where to go.”

The sound of police sirens was getting louder, but Illya seemed to be more troubled with Napoleon’s words.

“Come on, Peril. Don’t pout.”

Illya swore in Russian, but did get into the car.

Taking Illya to his hotel room was probably a very bad idea, but Napoleon chose to not think about it and welcomed the Russian in his humble abode, encouraging him to make himself at home and even offered a drink.

“I don’t want drink. I want answers from that stinky little-“

“Now that was low Peril! You scared him until he pissed himself and now you’re angry that he smells bad? It was all your fault.”

“Shut up, and let me work.”

“No. You’re not doing this until you tell me who you work for.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, Peril. Tell me.”

“You seriously don’t know? You were spying on me for months!”

Solo’s frown deepened.

“Who is your boss?”

“I am.”

The voice from their left made them both turn, startled. Napoleon instantly pulled out his gun and pointed it at the man, who apparently had been waiting there for them.

“Who are you?”

The man was older than them, but still very handsome and elegant. He raised his hand in surrender, but the tension in his shoulders, and careful moves did not fool Napoleon. He was ready to defend himself against the CIA agent. He didn’t even look worried. He seemed… amused for some reason.

“Is that true, Mr. Kuryakin? You traumatized Doctor Bykov?” He walked up to his protégé, too close for Napoleon’s liking. His British accent making his words sound alluring.

“No Sir. He just… drank too much water…”

The man raised one elegant eyebrow, and the smirk that was fighting its way to his face was winning.

“Of course he did.” Then he faced Napoleon again and smiled.

“I apologise, Mr. Solo. We didn’t mean to intrude on your mission. Mr. Sanders was quite clear that his objective was retrieving the doctor. But I saw it as an opportunity.”

“An opportunity for what, Mr…”

“Weaverly. How rude of me. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Solo.”

He extended his hand and Napoleon shook it, because the man was being really polite and there was no reason to shoot him yet.

“I’ve heard a lot about your work and your skills. I think that your talents should be used for the greater good of the world, instead of just one country. Especially since your arrest was a joint operation!”

Napoleon had enough of this bullshit.

“Who are you, Mr. Weaverly?”

Before the older man could answer one more person entered the room.

“I warned you that he’s a pain in the ass.”

Sanders’ raspy voice was filled with disgust, just as every other time he spoke about Napoleon.

“Well…” The Englishman was still smiling brightly. “…luckily I’m used to the feeling.” Saying that he winked at his blond pupil. He didn’t even try to hide his satisfaction seeing how Sanders almost chocked on his cigar hearing those words.

Napoleon was not amused. Because it was not funny in the slightest. He quickly looked at Illya, but the man didn’t seem perturbed or even interested in his boss’ words. He just rolled his eyes and started to unpack the disks he brought back.

With growing annoyance Napoleon took notice of Waverly still watching the Russian’s every move. What irritated him the most was not the attention though, but that creepy smile!

“Mr. Waverly, if you could explain  what are you doing in my safe house, I would be grateful.”

Once again Sanders scolded him instead.

“Shut up Solo, and put your gun down. Don’t embarrass me. For once.”

“Sir…?”

“Listen to what the man has to say. I expect you to wrap up this mess here soon. Mr. Waverly will give you details of your next assignment. Good night, gentlemen. Solo.”

The CIA agent didn’t answer his superior. This whole situation was way too weird to be real.

“I apologise, Mr. Solo. Let me explain everything to you.”

“Please do.” Napoleon put his gun down, but he did not put it back to its holster just yet.

“As I said earlier, I saw this situation with Doctor Bykov as an opportunity to see how you and agent Kuryakin work together.”

Illya dropped the empty satchel to the floor. “What? Why would you want me to work with the American. You know how he irritates me.”

Waverly smiled again, showing two rows of perfect teeth.

“Actually, Kuryakin, I think he handles you pretty well.”

“Handles? He wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“I don’t mean fighting, Kuryakin. I mean that he… managed to tame you.”

“What are you talking about?! I don’t need taming!  I am not an animal!”

“No, but you _are_ wild. And you _do_ need it. And he did manage it.”

Pushing Illya’s buttons like that was not a good idea. Napoleon knew, because he had seen people do that a few times before and they always ended up in pieces. So he was not happy with Waverly using him to taunt the giant Russian. He was pretty sure that Illya’s temper would get the better of him, and then Napoleon would be the one paying the price. But, to his great surprise, instead of getting mad, Illya simply blushed.

“He did NOT.” Illya’s index finger was jabbing the air in front of his boss, accentuating every word. But Waverly was not intimidated, which gained him Napoleon’s immediate respect.

“He befriended you.”

“Not true!”

“You let him hold your hand.”

“I did not!” The Russian’s fingers thrummed nervously on his thigh, forcing Waverly to finally take a step back.

“OK, then, care to explain how did you get shot?”

The tapping stopped for a moment. Illya seemed to think about the answer intently. “…No.”

Waverly apparently anticipated this exact answer. “Stop pouting, Kuryakin. It makes you look cute and ruins your image.”

At that Illya snapped, and grabbing Waverly by the lapels of his jacket he somehow spun him in the air and shoved down onto a table, with his fist ready to lay a punch.

Napoleon moved without thinking and grabbed Illya’s raised hand.

“Peril!”

Illya’s hand surrendered to him for some unfathomable reason and when the Russian faced him there was shame and guilt written all over his face.

“Now, Peril, that’s another pout. The old man had a point here, you know?”

Illya pushed him away with a scowl.

“Don’t push it.” He didn’t call him Cowboy, which kind of hurt a bit, but Illya didn’t kill anyone and that was a win. Right…?

Waverly still didn’t move from his spot on the table. The Russian, with his head and eyes down, grabbed the shaking figure of the catatonic Doctor by one leg and dragged the man to the bathroom, firmly closing the door behind him. For a moment Napoleon was torn between following him to prevent some gruesome tortures or helping the Englishman.

“Are you alright, Sir?”

Napoleon helped the older man off the table.

“I’m fine, Mr. Solo. I’m fine.”

Seeing Napoleon’s worried looks directed at the bathroom door Waverly laughed.

”Don’t worry. He won’t hurt him. He’s not like that. I provoked him on purpose.”

Napoleon’s eyebrows shot up in clear confusion

“So, you are mental? Nice. And you’re Illya’s boss. That’s… interesting.”

Waverly fixed his clothes and meticulously brushed every hair over his forehead into obedience.

“I am not mental, Mr. Solo. Do not worry. But I am Kuryakin’s handler and I know how to push his buttons.”

“I can see that. I just can’t tell why would anyone want to push them.” Napoleon lied through his teeth. He knew exactly why. He did, on every occasion he got. Riling his Peril up was fun, and it was worth the risk.

Judging by the Englishman’s indulgent smirk he didn’t buy Napoleon’s bullshit. At all.

“Illya Kuryakin is a powerhouse that has no match, but like any weapon, without some safety hatch he’s dangerous.”

“And you think I can be his safety hatch. Why?”

“He listened to you. And even if my words made him flip, he didn’t hurt you for saying exactly the same thing. He chose to protect you, risking his own life. I don’t know how, or why, but I am convinced that you can improve his performance dramatically. Which is a miracle I am still having trouble believing, even though I saw it with my own eyes.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“If I were wrong, I would have been explaining your tragic death to Sanders months ago.”

“So, what do you expect of me?”

“To continue the mission of protecting Mr. Bykov on his way to Soviet Union, together with Mr. Kuryakin. People who got him will try again. He’s in your custody. Sanders was here to give you another mission, involving transporting the doctor safely to Moscow. He got you and the doctor new identities.”

The British took a pipe from his coat and started to fill it with tobacco.

“And wat is your angle?” Napoleon finally put his gun back to its holster and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t miss Waverly’s eyes following every move of his muscles.

“There is much more to Dr. Bykov than what CIA is aware of. What agent Kuryakin retrieved tonight was supposed to prevent Bykov’s procedure from being used. As far we are aware of, he succeeded. But we need confirmation from the doctor, that he did not disclose any crucial details of his research.”

“Research on what? Two headed dogs?”

“Head transplant. Mr. Solo, if they manage to use it to their advantage-“

“By 'them' you mean….?”

“T.H.R.U.S.H.”

“Oh, of course. For a moment there I forgot about the villains.”

“Mr. Solo. I want you to allow Mr. Kuryakin to accompany and assist you in your mission.”

“I work better alone.”

Waverly once again surprised Napoleon snorting and laughing.

“Hilarious! He says exactly the same thing every time I try to pair him up with someone. So far, he managed to prove he was right every single time.”

“Great…”

“But don’t understand me wrong, Mr. Solo. I am not bringing you on board for his sake. Your specific set of skills is something we sorely need at the moment. T.H.R.U.S.H. is growing stronger. We don’t have enough men to find them all. That’s why we appreciate help, especially from the best of the best, from all the countries that are willing to support our mission.”

“Which is?”

“Bringing down T.H.R.U.S.H.”

“Are you a part of the Agency?”

“No. We are…. Something else. Our structure is more complex. First of all, we don’t represent interest of any particular country. We represent the World, Mr. Solo. And that is what we fight for.”

“So, what is it called?”

“United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.”

The American winced. “You should think of a shorter name.”

“We did. The acronym is U.N.C.L.E.”

TBC.


	7. Your neighbour is the man who needs you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imek, PlanB, Road_tama , eavos, TawnyPixie, habinah, v, Gale+Cotton, TinkanaiT32, Archangel, Anbanan, Sunnshine, Sshaw, teaxadorer – THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR KIND WORDS!
> 
> I am sorry for taking so long. I wish I had more time to write. Please bear with me.

_Your neighbour is the man who needs you._ \- Elbert Hubbard 

 

As curious as the American was about their new fake identities and details of  their mission, he had trouble focusing on the whole thing. His eyes were darting from Illya’s abandoned bag, to the trail of now dried blood on the floor and finally to where the trail was leading to…

The door to the bathroom remained stubbornly closed through the whole conversation Napoleon had with Waverly about his and Illya’s liaison job.

It unsettled Napoleon.

He believed the older man when he said Illya wouldn’t hurt the Doctor. Especially that they were yet to hear any cries or other noises indicating torture or violence. But the Russian has been shot, and the bullet was probably still in his shoulder. The amount of blood on the floor wasn’t really all that worrying but Napoleon couldn’t take his eyes off of it for more than few seconds, constantly wondering if Illya had taken care of his wound.

“Mr. Solo…”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Waverly frowned slightly and seemed to change his mind about repeating what he had said a moment ago.

“I just want you to know how happy I am that Mr. Sanders agreed to lend you to us for this mission. We were very curious about you for some time now.”

“By ‘we’ you mean who exactly?”

“U.N.C.L.E. of course. That is why we asked agent Kuryakin to keep an eye on you.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. I was looking forward to meeting you in person. I knew that an opportunity to engage CIA into something THRUSH related would come sooner rather than later but I didn’t expect it to be _that_ soon. I was hoping to get more… complete intel on you before our paths crossed. But so far, aside from the usual information contained in your file, all I know is that you are, and I quote: “ _easily distracted. Bad spy but good shooter.”_

Napoleon’s jaw literally dropped.

“Is that what Illa told you about me?”

“That was actually his official report. I was surprised he even bothered with typing it. It was literally just one line! He is sparse with words like that. Oh, sorry, he also added one weakness: women.”

There was that smile on the other man’s face again. The one that twisted Napoleon’s guts and couldn’t be described as anything other than… fond.

“I am an _excellent_ spy.”

“Yes, well… that is indeed what I had heard about you from others, but Kuryakin seems to be convinced that you drag too much attention to succeed in covert situations. Ah well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we?”

Waverly was smiling brightly, like it was an early Christmas.

“Now, Mr Solo I think it’s time for me to say goodnight. I will come back in the morning with your new documents. If Kuryakin doesn’t bleed  out in your restroom I will be seeing you both at Matiz, nine o’clock. Please, don’t be late. I will also bring you your tickets. You will be leaving in about three days.”

“Why? Why not go straight ahead?”

“THRUSH will be looking for you. They will expect you to leave tomorrow. Hopefully they will stop looking here in a few days. Of course, I can only imagine how well Kuryakin will react to the prospect of staying here, so… good luck Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon tried to remain nonchalant about the ‘bleeding out’ comment but must have failed spectacularly judging from Waverly’s amused expression.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Solo. I’m sure he already removed the bullet with a pen or something. He has his ways.”

“…I’m sure he has…”

“Good night Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon was already by the bathroom before Waverly even reached the door.

“Peril…?”

The answer came after a long pause. Or maybe it was only long in Napoleon’s worried mind.

“…What?”

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

Napoleon just rolled his eyes and pushed the door open. What he saw made him hesitate a moment on the threshold. Doctor Bykov was sitting naked in a bathtub full of steaming water, now visibly more relaxed and calmer than before. Illya in the meantime… Well, Illya was… shirtless.

Completely.

He had scars on his back and right shoulder. The centre of his chest was covered with a bit of light hair, definitely fewer than Napoleon’s own, and his muscles were less bulky than the American’s. Illya was taller and stronger, but he was also wiry and slim, where Napoleon was more massive. His skin was tanned, which surprised Napoleon for some reason, and his nipples were big and dark. Napoleon swallowed feeling his heart speeding up suddenly. But it was really Illya’s navel that almost made Napoleon gasp…

“What do you want?”

Napoleon looked up to meet the angry gaze of the blond menace.

“Excuse me?”

“I asked what do you want? I am not torturing him. Just needed him to clean up…”

Seeing how Illya’s face twitched slightly when he moved Napoleon was brutally reminded about the reason why he decided to barge in. He didn’t like the amount of bloodied clothes in the sink or the small tweezers in Illya’s trembling hand.

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Fine.”

“Really, Peril, it clearly isn’t. Is the bullet still in?”

“It’s none of your business. If you want to help, take Bykov, before he drowns and I will continue.”

“Or…” Napoleon stepped closer to the half-naked Russian. “…you’ll let me do it.”

“I will not.”

Illya hissed  jabbing the tweezers back into the dark bloody hole near his clavicle. Napoleon flinched but didn’t hesitate and prying the taller man’s hands away from the wound he snatched the damn tool and threw it to the sink.

“Stop it, Peril. Just… stop.”

Surprisingly, Illya did. Their gazes met for a moment before the CIA agent grabbed a bathrobe and held it out for the doctor to use. The scientist stood up slowly and wrapped himself in the fluffy thing with a grateful smile.

“I… will go to bed now...” Bykov’s voice was soft, but calm and seemingly reasonable. When he quietly left the bathroom, Napoleon stepped closer to the tall Russian and stood behind him, catching his eyes in the mirror over his wounded shoulder.

“Now play nice, Peril, and let me take a look.”

Illya didn’t say anything; his eyes never left the other man’s reflection though. Napoleon gently traced the swollen skin around the ripped out hole in Illya’s muscles and gasped feeling that it was burning with heat.

“Ok, there’s no time to waste.” He left to rummage in his things for a moment and got back with a screwdriver in his hand.”

Illya snorted, apparently amused by the American’s choice of equipment.

“I am not machine, Cowboy. Can’t fix me with screwdriver.”

“Very funny, Peril. This is not just an ordinary screwdriver. It’s magnetic. Perfect for picking some types of locks. Now I need to clean it…”

Without another word Illya handed him a bottle of vodka, so Napoleon used it to disinfect the metal end. Then his eyes once again met Illya’s looking for permission on the Russian’s handsome face.

“Just do it, Cowboy.”

As much as Illya sounded truly convincing and calm, it didn’t help Napoleon’s nerves. He simply couldn’t hurt the other man and putting something metal into a fresh would was going to hurt very badly. Especially with the random addition of alcohol on the tool.

“Why did you do it, Peril…?”

Holding his breath Napoleon dipped the screwdriver in Illya’s shoulder as carefully as he could. Illya didn’t even flinch.

“Did what?”

“Cover me… take the bullet for me...”

Illya shrugged, forgetting about the piece of metal in his wound. This time he hissed in discomfort.

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. You can’t lie to me about it, because I WAS THERE!”

“Then I guess… involuntary reaction.”

Napoleon huffed, and slowly started to pull the bullet out.

Through his years of not always pleasant experiences in CIA Napoleon had his fair share of bullet wounds.  It was a rare feat to have someone else tend to them properly but it was always greatly appreciated.  Peril didn’t seem to appreciate it in the slightest.  His muscles were tensed and his posture stiff, surely making the process of removing the bullet more painful. But no matter how gently Napoleon touched,  how carefully he treated the wound and how politely he spoke,  the Russian seemed completely unable to relax. 

"I'm almost done here.  I will have to put on some stitches. "

"I don't need stitches. "

Illya grabbed some bloodied cloth from the sink and pressed it to the bullet-free wound. 

"Don't do that! "

The American once again didn't hesitate when he took hold of Illya's hands. 

They were strangely beautiful and delicate.  They looked like hands of a pianist rather than an assassin.  

Illya dropped his gaze to their joined  hands and Napoleon quickly moved away, busing himself with preparation of a needle.

“I hope you are not afraid of needles, Peril.”

“Needles no. Just stupid Americans too close to my wounds. Give me that.”

“No! I’m doing the stitches.”

“Give it to me.”

“No! You’re incredible, you know that? We are going to kill each other on this mission. I have no idea why your boyfriend thinks we could work together. It’s crazy…” Napoleon was rambling, disinfecting the wound and the needle.

“Who?”

“Your boyfriend… Waverly.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Lover then.” Seeing Illya open his mouth to protest Napoleon quickly  jabbed the needle into his skin, successfully shutting him up.

“No need to be shy, Peril. Waverly is a dashing man.”

The Russian’s face twisted in that now familiar way communicating Illya’s dissatisfaction with Napoleon. It looked like disgust, but the American new better.

“I cannot believe that someone actually thinks you are good spy, Cowboy.”

Napoleon chuckled, but his clever fingers never stopped their meticulous work on Illya’s perfectly shaped shoulder. Actually, Illya’s whole body was nothing short of perfect. It still reminded Napoleon a body of a swimmer, even though he knew it was in reality a body of a fighter, of Judo and Sambo champion, with every muscle as hard as a rock… But thinking about those things at the moment was not a good idea… Napoleon needed to distract Illya for a moment longer.

“You can deny all you want. I can see the way he looks at you, you know…

Napoleon hoped to see his neighbour flustered, but Illya still refused to take the bait and just rolled his eyes.

“Now you are downright ridiculous. I will pretend you just spew this nonsense to distract me. Because you actually believing it, would make me think about CIA very unflattering things.”

“Oh come on, Peril. Admit, you’ve seen it too.”

“You are crazy.”

“Sure, because Waverly is not undressing you with his hungry eyes all the fucking time.” Napoleon winced as the words came out much more harshly than he intended.

“He does not. He teases me and that is it. But who am I trying to convince? You were my neighbour for months and didn’t even realise I was an agent.”

“I did realise you were an agent. I just thought you were KGB.”

Illya turned his head to meet Napoleon’s eyes.

“You believed I was a charity worker.”

“I did not. I even started to go to Del Floria to find out where you were disappearing every day.”

“Stalker.” Napoleon could hear a smirk in Illya’s voice, even if the man’s face was contorted in a permanent frown.

“Oh? Look who’s talking!” Napoleon paused his ministrations to throw an incredulous look at the Russian through the mirror.

“It was my job, Cowboy. Waverly told me to keep an eye on you. You should thank me.”

“For what?”

“Sicily.”

“It was you?”

“Don’t tell Waverly. Was not supposed to get involved.”

“But you did anyway. Why?”

“...reflex…”

Napoleon snorted. “Right. That’s cute, Peril. Really.”

Illya’s reflexes were usually with intention to kill or break people, not to save them.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” The unmistakable mirth in the Russian’s voice made Napoleon’s heart swell.

“I am talking about you, liking me too much to hurt me.”

Their amused eyes met in the mirror again.

“I suppose…” At Illya’s slow words Napoleon’s smile disappeared and his heart went up to his throat until his neighbour continued. “…that you are not totally unbearable.”

“Well… that must have been hard to admit.”

“You have no idea, Cowboy. Pained me more than this bullet wound.”

“Which I already finished patching up. How does it feel? Stitches are not too tight?”

Napoleon finally took his hands away from Illya and let the other man move his shoulder a bit to test it.

“It’s fine.”

“Come on, then. I’ll make us some dinner and I suggest we hit the sack.”

“You do that. I will meet you in the morning.”

The Russian was already moving out of the bathroom, pulling his black turtleneck back on, despite it being all bloody and torn.

“Wait up, Peril. Why don’t you just stay here?”

A pair of pale blue eyes turned to Napoleon and it was nothing like meeting them in the mirror. Standing so close to Illya was breath-taking and almost made the American swoon.

“My apartment is two streets away.”

“Oh…” Napoleon hoped he didn’t sound as pitiful as he thought he did. “Ok then. Goodnight, Peril.”

“Доброй ночи, Cowboy.”

That night Napoleon didn’t get much sleep due to tormenting thoughts about an elegant Englishman possibly waiting for Illya in his apartment…

In the morning he was tired, grumpy and his hair refused to cooperate at all. To his absolute dismay Illya looked like a cover model in his simple grey suit and a tie that actually made Napoleon’s morning just a tad bit less awful.

 Because he remembered that suit.

Illya wore it once to one of their Saturday movie nights. Back then he was sporting a bow tie and Napoleon teased him mercilessly, until Illya removed the atrocity from his elegant neck and threw it into a nearby trash. In all honesty he looked good with that silly bow tie but teasing him was too hard to resist.

“Lovely tie, Peril.” – Was Napoleon’s way of greeting the other agent.

“Shut up, Cowboy. I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m serious. It looks good. Waverly tries to fix your fashion sense?”

“I’m afraid it’s incurable, Mr. Solo. Though dropping the bow ties is an unquestionable improvement. All you have to work on now are his golf caps and turtlenecks.” Napoleon turned to shake hands with the older man who approached them with a grin on his handsome face.

“Mr. Waverly.” He even smiled at the Englishman, warmed by the realization that he and Illya did not arrive together.

“Mr. Solo. It’s nice to hear we share our opinions on Agent Kuryakin’s sartorial choices.”

It was tearing Napoleon apart from the inside, because he couldn’t help but like that son of a bitch despite his obvious interest in Napoleon’s new favourite person.

“Let’s seat and have some tea now. I’m afraid I will not be able to talk about anything serious before at least two cups of Earl Grey. Kuryakin, stop scowling or your face will stay that way.”

Illya merely rolled his eyes and snatched the menu American was already studying. At first Napoleon almost started to fight him for it but then changed his tactic and leaned on Illya’s shoulder instead, invading his personal space like never before.

“Back off, Cowboy.”

“Shut up and let me read it. You took it away from me, deal with consequences.”

“Your cologne is making me dizzy. Did you bath in it?”

“Oh shut up, Peril. Not everyone is satisfied with smelling like a hotel soap.”

And that was exactly how Illya smelled. Like a bath and fresh laundry. It was amazing how that ordinary fragrance mingled with the scent of Peril’s skin. It was so simple and pure, and yet it was putting Napoleon's senses on high alert, making him think about how Illya’s neck could possibly taste…

They placed their orders and Napoleon couldn’t help but tease Illya about his sweet tooth. The Russian didn’t miss a beat and teased Napoleon right back about his fluffy cappuccino, making Waverly snort inelegantly trying to stop from laughing, as if Illya’s biting come back had surprised him.

Interesting.

Now that Napoleon thought about it, Illya generally ignored the older man’s teasing comments, never giving him a satisfaction of the smallest reaction. Meantime he reacted to Napoleon’s every jab very diligently.

The American  decided to test his new theory and taunted Illya some more, getting as much as he gave every step of the way. The expression on the older man’s face was hilarious. Waverly seemed mesmerised by every smirk on Illya’s face, shocked by every joke the Russian made and absolutely floored by the sudden bout of laughter that escaped those usually frowning lips.

Very interesting indeed.

Finally they got down to business, received their instructions, documents and tickets to Moscow, with very clear order to lay low until their departure. That last bit Waverly repeated at least four times, making sure that the Russian had heard.

“Did I make myself clear Agent Kuryakin?”

“Yes Sir.”

Waverly nodded and turn to leave, but still stopped after two steps and asked one final time.

“Are you sure you understand what lay low means…”

Honestly  it pissed Napoleon after first three times, so he didn’t even give Illya a chance to snap, and did it himself.

“I am pretty sure he heard the first fifteen times you’ve said it.”

For a moment no one spoke.

The Englishman’s face was totally blank. He must’ve been a really good agent because he gave absolutely nothing for a tormenting moment while Napoleon almost started to sweat.

“If he doesn’t, I will assume it was your fault, Mr. Solo. Good day.”

When Napoleon turned back to asses Illya’s reaction he was once again rather surprised. The Russian ignored the whole ordeal completely, concentrated on devouring his third portion of postre de natas. He wasn’t even looking at the American while he licked the creamy substance from a spoon, his eyes slightly shut in some unfair pleasure…

It was crazy. Napoleon needed some fresh air, because the heat was obviously getting to him and this was neither time nor place to test the waters with a Russian menace that could probably kill him faster than say his name.

“So, Peril, how about a trip to a museum? They have quite a few interesting art galleries not far from here.”

“No time. Have work. But you go.”

“What do you mean work? Aren’t we supposed to lay low until our flight?”

A pair of icy blue eyes raised from almost empty cup of desert and glared at the CIA agent.

“I know what I have to do. You go. I have something else to do.”

“Like what?”

Illya’s eyes never strayed from Napoleon’s giving the American an interesting insight to his mind. It was hilarious to see Illya trying desperately to make up an excuse the other man would believe. Finally he just sighed in resignation.

“Errands.”

“Errands? What kind of errands can you possibly have half a world from home, at 9 am, in the middle of a mission?”

“It’s not important.”

“Since I am supposed to be accountable for your irrational decisions I think it may be important. Spill, Peril, or I swear to God I am going to handcuff you right here, right now and keep in my room until our flight.”

Starting this conversation Napoleon was set on squashing every idea Illya may throw at him involving any unauthorized action. They were practically on vacation here, and he would not let Illya spoil it for any reason. At all.

So he still couldn’t figure it out why he was now crawling through the mud in the middle of a night, aiding Illya in an impossible attempt to pacify yet another THUSH facility, further from the city.

He supposed it must have been Illya’s scent after all, because he was holding his ground perfectly until the Russian leaned in closer, whispering something into his ear and suddenly everything went to hell. That smell, underlined with the sweet scent of Illya’s desert still lingering in his breath, it was too much. Napoleon wasn’t even listening at this point. He was just riding the feeling of being so close to that tall, dangerous man, who loved sweets and wanted to risk his life for some poor animals people were experimenting on…

He didn’t even know when or why he proposed his own involvement. He supposed it happened, because he just couldn’t let Illya go alone when he was hurt. He wanted to….

But couldn’t.

TBC.

Ps. Hey, maybe someone would like to Beta this? ... Anyone?. . . . hello...?


	8. It never rains on your neighbors without you getting your feet wet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear People, in particular: GeneralGoods, TaterPie , lexa , nihilleaf , Farisya, Mixk , Queen_of_nerds , GFIARNL, Archangel_Arri , Mycrazybrain , book_monkey , Ariesjette , PlanB , AodhanKingkiller , lessthanpure , saltythumbtack THANK YOU all for comments and kudos!
> 
> Please, once again, accept my apology for being slow and busy. I know how it is to wait for an update. After some time you forget what the story was about.   
> (This one is about Illya and Napoleon being neighbors!)
> 
> TawnyPixie you are an amazing Beta!  
> Thank you so much for dealing with me. I know your time is precious!
> 
> Sara Chimera - thank you for consultations and for being always ready! I always appreciate your help.

 

**CHAPTER 8**

_It never rains on your neighbors without you getting your feet wet._ \- [Chinese Proverb](http://www.special-dictionary.com/proverbs/source/c/chinese_proverb/)

-  *  -

“Something tells me we’re going to miss our plane.” Napoleon’s words echoed in the vast  empty room.

“We are not.”

The Russian’s grumpy answer turned into a growl, betraying that Illya was once again struggling against the restraints binding his wrists. Napoleon didn’t even try to move. He knew his own limits. The limits of any human being, for that matter. No one could break those chains without proper tools, and there was absolutely no reason to waste energy just to confirm the obvious.

“My Spanish may be a little rusty, but it was pretty clear that they have a bone or two to pick with you, Peril. What did you do exactly?”

“I am U.N.C.L.E. agent and they are THRUSH. That’s enough I guess.”

“Really? Sounded kinda personal to me.”

Napoleon still couldn’t wrap his head around it. The leader of their captors, a short bald man in a sweat soaked shirt, yelled at Illya for a good twenty minutes, his face turning purple and ugly as he went on. When Baldie’s voice broke down he pulled out a crumpled picture of a man he called Antonio and shoved it at Illya’s face, almost taking his eye out. Then he headed for the door, crying and cursing, promising the U.N.C.L.E. agent torture and a gruesome death.

“He said I broke his brother’s neck. I don’t remember anything like that…  Must have mistaken me for someone else.” Illya dismissed the dramatic vendetta story like a common misunderstanding.

“He said your name about twenty times and recognized you even before they pulled off your balaclava. Sorry, Peril, but I think he may be onto something here.”

Illya grunted with great effort again, his heavy breaths faster and faster, making Napoleon’s mind wander to places it shouldn’t go in these particular circumstances.

“STOP doing that, Peril. It’s steel. There is no way to break those ch-“

The last word died on his lips, drowned out by the loud sound of a breaking chain.

He was pretty sure his neighbor did these kinds of things on purpose just to spite him. A moment later his own handcuffs were gone and he could get to picking the lock on the door. Three seconds later it clicked quietly inviting them to take their leave. They did not hesitate. Their time was running out. Their captors would return  soon and Illya needed to get his satchel back. It contained the detonator for the “distraction” they had left on the second floor, and a few really neat Russian-made gadgets which Napoleon was itching to steal after their mission.

They moved quietly through the mostly empty corridors, eliminating enemy operatives along the way. Illya's movements were so exact, and perfectly efficient it was almost scary. Napoleon liked to improvise on his missions. His actions were often spontaneous though usually given a bit of thought to.

Illya though… Illya was like a killing machine; a well-oiled, perfectly tuned, infallible, machine. There was no room for unnecessary movements in his actions. Each gesture was terrifyingly precise and deadly. It made Napoleon stop and stare in awe, letting it sink in that if he were ever to go against this man, he would maybe last a minute tops. If he were lucky that is. The thought of it made a shiver run down his spine. While it should be uncomfortable to even fathom being overpowered by that Russian monster, it was actually exhilarating.

Illya moved ahead with the power of a tank and the grace of a wild-cat, every kill done quietly and quickly. He made it seem so effortless it was kind of depressing. 

Napoleon walked calmly right behind the taller man with one hand in his pocket, enjoying himself, as if it was a lazy stroll in the park. And damn, the views were absolutely breathtaking!

He was so concentrated on his partner, and so un-phased by everything else, that all he could muster was a mere raised brow when a bit of blood splashed onto his shoe. 

"What?" The blond growled at him irritably clearly put out by the American's nonchalant attitude.

Napoleon sighed and rubbed the tip of his shoe against a dead man’s jacket.

"Was that really necessary?"

Illya scoffed, just as Napoleon knew he would.

"Sorry. Was I supposed to wait? Didn't realize you were going to _talk him_ into changing his mind about slitting my throat."

"You're such a brute, Peril."

"And you're such a princess."

"Well, if that's how you would treat a princess then you must be a real charmer. No wonder you go to the movies with _me_."

"I do not... " Illya stopped to dodge another attack, his blond bangs falling onto his forehead in a very appealing and distracting fashion. "...go with you."

He kicked the attacker and snapped his neck with a perfectly executed sambo move, crushing the other man's windpipe between his knees. As violent and primitive as it seemed, Napoleon couldn't help but think about having his last breath squeezed out of him between Peril's thighs. That THRUSH scum certainly did not deserve such a nice way to go. 

"You just started to go at the same time as I do…” Illya stood back up and brushed his hair away from his face, throwing Napoleon a dashing smile that took the American by surprise. “…because you enjoy my company."

"Well..." Napoleon regained his bearings surprisingly quickly. "...I suppose you are not completely unbearable."

When Illya's unrestrained laughter filled the hall they fell back in step moving toward their goal.

Soon it was all over. The bomb went off, dragging everyone's attention to the top floors. It gave them the opening they needed to move in and release all the caged dogs that had been prepared for vivisection and head transplant attempts.  Then the remaining bombs went off, one by one, dealing with the rest of the laboratory.

They were moving lazily through the parking lot in the red glow of flames when they heard... a cry.

"Peril?"

"I think it came from that car..." Napoleon turned his steps toward the sounds that couldn’t be made by anything else but a baby, but Illya grabbed his shoulder to stop him from approaching the car.

"Careful, Cowboy. I'll cover you."

For the first time that night Illya pulled out his Makarov and held it to the right of Napoleon's head to be able to immediately shoot any danger that Napoleon may face from the seemingly empty vehicle.

An accidental brush of the cold silencer over Napoleon’s heated cheek was distracting, but it also gave him sense of safety greater than the Walther PPK clutched in his own hand. Slowly he pulled the rear door open, then took a quick step back.

There was a big leather bag on the seat… moving slightly.

“Please, Cowboy, tell me it’s just a bag full of puppies.”

“Sorry, Peril.” Napoleon put his gun back into its holster and expertly picked up the small whimpering bundle, cradling it carefully in his arms. “It’s a boy.”

Illya cursed in Russian, reluctantly lowering his own gun.

“Waverly is going to kill you.”

“Me?” Napoleon turned to face him with an outraged expression marring his handsome face.

“You’ve just blown up another building and he’s going to be mad at me?”

“He said he would blame you if I go… The building we could keep secret. The baby – we have to report.”

The CIA agent just rolled his eyes. “You seriously thought we could keep that a secret?” He gestured at the remnants of the destroyed THRUSH laboratory.

One of the dogs they rescued padded silently to the Russian to lick blood off his hand.

“Yes. They would ask if I did it. I would say no… But now…”

“Can’t we just… leave the runt at a hospital or something…?” Suddenly Napoleon lowered his voice. “There’s a good chance we’ve just orphaned him.”

But Illya shook his head. “I don’t think it belonged to one of them. Even THRUSH scum would not keep their baby in a travel bag.”

“You think it was a kidnapping?”

“Could be. Just take it. We have to leave before the firefighters come.”

When they were all safely seated in Illya’s car the Russian pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and began speaking into it. For a moment Napoleon wondered if his partner had lost his mind, but then it dawned on him that the pen was actually a communication device and his partner was reporting in to Waverly.

“Sir, it’s Kuryakin. We have found a baby.”

Neither of the two agents expected a chuckle to be Waverly's answer.

“Kuryakin, check your frequency and signal strength. I just heard that you have found a baby! So, please repeat.”

“We have found a baby.” Illya repeated as clearly as his Russian accent allowed.

“What do you mean?”

Here the Russian simply rolled his eyes.

“I mean… a _baby._ Small human being… male, ten fingers, ten toes. Looks healthy.”

“How? Why? Where? Why would you do something like that?”

“It was not part of the plan, Sir. We have found it in the back seat of a car. It was crying.”

“Then hand it over to local authorities.”

“Sir, it was on THRUSH parking lot.”

There was a longer pause on Waverly’s side and Napoleon searched Illya’s face looking for any trace of worry on his cool facade. If the blond was even remotely afraid of his handler he sure as hell didn’t show it.

There were whispers on the other side of the line before Waverly spoke again. “Was it at the same facility that burned down not twenty minutes ago?”

“I… don’t know, Sir. Maybe.” Illya was mumbling and he only did that when he was trying to lie.

“Sure, Kuryakin. And you were surely just passing by…. Is Agent Solo with you right now? Can he hear me?”

“Yes, Sir…” Illya scowled at the communicator, while Napoleon scowled at him.

“Where is Doctor Bykov?”

Napoleon cleared his throat, feeling suddenly uncharacteristically nervous.

“I added some sleeping pills to his evening tea. He’s in the hotel.”

Waverly was silent for another moment.

“Illya, you take the baby. Someone will pick him up in the morning.”

“Wait! Sir, I can’t take the baby! Let me take Bykov.” Illya was crushing the communicator in his hand, his knuckles white and face red with anger.

“Kuryakin, I wasn’t asking for your opinion. You take the baby. And yes, it is a punishment. Don’t test my patience even further. Solo, please, go back to Dr. Bykov, providing that he is still alive of course. You both continue with the mission. Escort Bykov back to Moscow. I will expect your mission report on my desk in three days. Solo, I will also want to talk to you then. I assume I don’t have to explain why.”

Napoleon swallowed. “No, Sir.”

“That would be all, Gentlemen. I hope you will refrain from destroying the rest of the city.”

Illya drove them to his apartment, not sparing even one glance at the small creature cooing softly in Napoleon’s gentle arms. When the car stopped, the Russian’s hands were squeezing the wheel in a death grip, accidentally denting the cheap plastic.

“Cowboy...”

The American moved his gaze from the wheel to Illya’s pleading eyes.

“I can’t take it. It’s too small. It will break.”

The CIA agent just smiled and shook his head.

“You’ll be fine, Peril. It’s easier than it looks. Come on. Take him.”

“NO! I can’t.”

“Of course you can.”

Napoleon opened the car door and Illya almost tripped in his hurry to help him step out. Of course Napoleon let him. It was hilarious.

“Now Peril, it’s really not a big deal. It’s just a baby. Hold out your arms.”

Illya’s eyes widened comically but his hands didn’t move - until he dove back into the car and emerged holding the familiar looking bag. He held it out in front of him and spread it open.

“Put it back in there.”

Napoleon’s outraged look must have been too subtle for the U.N.C.L.E. agent because he impatiently shook his makeshift baby carrier and moved it closer to the American.

“Come on, put it in.”

“HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?! I’m not putting the baby back in some dirty old bag! Open the door! Now.”

Reluctantly Illya moved to open the door to his apartment building for his exasperated friend. Napoleon didn’t even spare him a glance as he marched inside, with the small human proudly swaddled in his arms. When Illya let him into his apartment the brunet looked around the small place with an unimpressed look on his face, before he deposited the drooling wonder on Illya’s bed.

“You go buy some baby formula and diapers. I’ll watch him.”

Illya practically ran he was so damn eager to get away. For a moment Napoleon wondered if the Russian would actually come back, but he dismissed the thought as an action unbecoming of someone so… damn perfect.

By the time Illya came back with a ton of supplies Napoleon managed to give the baby a bath, and had the boy wrapped in a fluffy towel when the Russian agent appeared in the doorway.

“Don’t worry, Peril. I managed the delicate part. Now, help me.”

He watched Illa’s too careful movements and tried not to laugh at how awkward he seemed. A man that was afraid of literally nothing, was now freaking out because of something so small and fragile.

“You will have to hold him for a moment while I make the bed.” Well, honestly it wasn’t necessary but Napoleon really wanted to torment Illya some more and have fun at his expense.

“No! That is not good idea.”

“Hold your hands like that.” Napoleon grabbed Illya’s arms and started to position them properly. Not for the first time Napoleon marveled at how tall the Russian was. Napoleon was used to being the tallest person in the room, so the other man’s dominating posture still amazed him a little every time he had a chance to stand this close.

When Illya stopped being difficult Napoleon quickly deposited the boy in his arms.

It was kind of cute, how the other agent was so afraid, so worried that he would accidentally hurt the tiny creature.

“You can breathe, Peril.”

Illya released the breath he was holding, but didn’t dare to move or even speak. It should have been funny but Napoleon didn’t feel like laughing. His chest was getting tighter and something inside him squeezed with some painful emotion, so strong it was choking him.

“Bed...”

Illya whispered, reminding Napoleon that he was not there to ogle him but work. He quickly rearranged the sheets and pillows, creating a little nest in the middle of the bed. And when he turned back to his friend he felt the air being knocked out of his chest by the view in front of him.

The tall blond was now sitting in a soft chair, patiently letting the impossibly small fingers fist his sweater. The baby was smiling, looking up at the U.N.C.L.E. agent’s yellow hair and trying to reach it, while a pair of big hands gently supported its weight and balance.

It was going to be a very long night.

…

Considering all the poise Napoleon showed at the beginning he turned out to be not much more skilled at taking care of a baby than his lovely Russian partner. They wasted ¾ of the baby formula before finally concocting something they both deemed good enough to serve to their little charge.

It was not really Napoleon’s fault though. How the hell could anyone tell if the crying foundling was 3 weeks or 3 months old!? He didn’t have a birth certificate and wasn’t much of a talker… He was more of a crying type of guy, actually. They mostly spent the night trying to make him stop.

The baby must’ve finally fallen asleep at some point because when Napoleon woke up at dawn all three of them were lying on the bed, him and Illya facing each other, with the baby sleeping soundly cradled securely between their torsos.

The kid’s small head was stuck adorably under Illya’s chin but it had nothing on how adorable the Russian giant was. His blond mane was an epic example of bed hair, with dried splashes of baby formula all over his bangs. Napoleon could hardly breathe looking at him like that, but his heart almost stopped when he realized where Illya’s right hand managed to find its rest.

The temperature in the room went through the roof in a matter of seconds and Napoleon knew it was about high time to move!

Going back to the hotel was harder for Solo than it had any right to be but the spot on his hip where he could still feel the warmth of Illya’s touch was making him dizzy and it was really uncalled for and just plain wrong.

...

Someone must have seen them last night, because the police were at Napoleon’s hotel door right when he got out of the shower in the morning.

“Mr. Davney?”

“…Yes. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit so early in the morning?”

“Sir, where were you last night around midnight?”

“Last night? With one of your lovely local girls, amigo.”

One policeman was fingering his gun, his hand trembling slightly, ready and eager to do something about the growing tension. The other one seemed calmer but somehow much more sinister. Napoleon raised his arms in a mock surrender.

“Easy, Officer. I’m only here on business. I don’t want trouble.”

“But that’s what you get when you take something that doesn’t belong to you… Mr. Solo.”

Someone moved behind Solo’s back and it took a mere fraction of a second for him to duck. Bykov had a lamp clutched in his trembling hands. Seeing that he missed his target he took another swing at Napoleon’s head. At the same instance a bullet shot straight through the head of one of the policeman and stopped in Bykov’s neck.

The other cop turned toward the sound of the gunshot to shoot at the man, who had killed his partner but he was dead before he could even see who it was. He dropped to the floor by his partner with another 9×18mm Makarov bullet in his skull.

Napoleon was torn between helping Bykov and hugging his Russian friend.

“Peril… how did you know? I swept the room last night and removed all your bugs.”

“Except those in your shoes. I heard Bykov make a call 15 minutes ago when you were in the shower.”

“You don’t…  understand…” The doctor was holding his neck pointlessly trying to stop the bleeding, gurgling and coughing.

“They had my niece… and her baby… I need… I need to go back… they killed my niece. I had to do what they asked me or they will kill the baby.”

Napoleon dropped down to his knees and grabbed Bykov’s neck to stop the bleeding.

“There is another lab. I will tell you where. Just… save the baby.”

“The baby is safe, Doctor. Don’t speak. Just let us help you.”

“Safe…?”

“Yes. We destroyed the other lab last night. It looks like they were going to either get rid of the baby after they had lost you, or use him to get you back. Either way, he’s safe now.”

“I… I did a lot of bad things… I gave them what they wanted. I gave them everything… They manipulate guerrillas, FARC, ELN, M-19. Tomorrow they will kill the president and replace his brain with one of their own man. I did everything they asked me to… I gave them all of my research.”

Illya shook his head. “I read your research yesterday. You only managed to keep your subject alive for three days.”

“It’s all they need to undermine cooperation with Alliance for Progress. The conference in Punta del Este… it will mean everything.” The doctor started to cough blood and shake violently.

“Shit.” Napoleon put more pressure on the wound in the doctor’s neck, while Illya scooped him into his arms and picked him up.

“I take him to the hospital, Cowboy.”

“Ok, What about those bodies?”

“Take the communicator from my pocket.”

Illya didn’t stop walking. Napoleon blushed but quickly slid his shaking hand into the front pocket of the blond man’s pants, eliciting a funny sound from the Russian’s lips.

“My breast pocket!” Napoleon would laugh at Illya’s hilarious reaction but he was too busy agonizing over the fact that his hand so close to Illya’s manhood felt alarmingly good. He cleared his throat and moved his hands to Illya’s leather jacket, skimming over his muscled chest before finally finding the small object he was looking for.

“Open the top and let me talk.”

Illya was moving down the stairs and then into the open air where his car waited patiently bathed in the Colombian heat and dust. Napoleon opened the back door and got inside, taking the doctor in his arms to keep pressing on the wound. Illya snatched the comm from him and radioed HQ, requesting a cleaning crew to Napoleon’s hotel address.

After that, everything happened all too fast. They dropped Bykov at the hospital, got their new IDs from another U.N.C.L.E. agent and in no time were already half-way to Uruguay, where an inter-American conference was about to begin in Punta del Este.

 

 TBC.

 


	9. The cat and the mouse can't be neighbors for long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PlanB , v , lily , dnimreven , Ainemcfate, firexcape , Queen_of_nerds, saltythumbtack , skyearth85 , Ariesjette , Captain+Pi , the_worrying_kind , Archangel_Arri , gulabi and all of you who left kudos  
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR COMMENTS!!!! I LOVE YOU GUYS!
> 
> That is why I updated few months ahead of my usual schedule... ;)
> 
> HUGE THANK YOU GOES AS ALWAYS TO MY BRILLIANT BETA TawnyPixie. Hail!
> 
> ps. Sara, if you're there, the e-mails I keep trying to send you bounce back.... :(

**CHAPTER 9**

_The cat and the mouse can't be neighbors for long._

[ _African Proverb_ ](http://www.special-dictionary.com/proverbs/source/a/african_proverb/)

  


They were heroes.

What they managed to stop in Uruguay was just a test run for a scheme that would quite efficiently grant THRUSH control over not only all of South America, but soon also the USA, the Soviet Union and gradually Europe. They honestly deserved medals!

“Peril, I am perfectly capable of carrying my own suitcase.”

Illya didn’t even acknowledge Napoleon’s half-hearted protests and continued on his way out of the airport, laden with all of their luggage. Somehow he even managed to put his fingers to his lips and whistle for a cab without dropping a single bag. The stubborn CIA agent still tried to help put their suitcases in the trunk but he quickly stepped back upon hearing the Russian’s impatient growl.

“Get in the car. You are hurt.”

With a heavy sigh Napoleon did as he was told. It was pointless to argue with Illya when he was in what Napoleon now called his ‘overprotective mode’. It was easier to just go with the flow and let the adorable idiot do as he pleased. Fighting him, or trying to explain that the small cut on his forearm wasn’t hurting anymore was just irritating his friend even more for some reason. So, in order to avoid unpleasant silent treatment the American decided to keep his protests to a minimum.

The cut came from a knife wielded by one of the THRUSH operatives. It cost Solo his favorite jacket and earned him two stitches in return. It was also how he had been officially introduced to the ‘episodes’ his partner mentioned to him briefly in Paris.

Napoleon had seen Illya’s temper get the better of him a few times before. It wasn’t easy to forget that fight in a bar or the unfortunate boy from Avon. But this was something else entirely. The moment he spotted the blood dripping from Napoleon’s arm his friend had become completely overtaken by fury.

He practically ripped the man who threw the knife apart with his bare hands. Then, after also killing all of the remaining scum, he continued to destroy everything within reach - including the furniture and walls - until there was nothing left to crush anymore.

For a moment Napoleon had been convinced that he too would fall victim of Peril’s wrath, but his body refused to react, remaining rooted to the spot and completely still. He didn’t even try dodging the things flying across the room, but miraculously nothing ever hit him. It was like standing in the eye of a tornado and watching the world fall apart around him. He wasn’t afraid. The only thought in his mind at the time was that another person cared about him enough to do all this just because someone dared to hurt him. In that one phenomenal moment Napoleon felt completely content, safe and almost loved.

He didn’t feel quite so good when the hotel hit them with the bill for Peril’s handiwork.

But he figured that U.N.C.L.E. could probably afford it. Or at least he hoped they could. He was supposed to meet Waverly in less than an hour and he was pretty sure he was going to find out, even if he didn’t really want to. He wasn’t looking forward to that meeting, but then again, he preferred to get it over with sooner than later.

When Illya barked the address to the taxi driver Napoleon’s mind didn’t register the location, concentrating on the warmth of the Russian’s thigh plastered to his own. He basked in the feeling, not wanting to think about coming back. He had been Illya’s mark. But now that the Russian’s cover was compromised, Napoleon was no longer his mission. It was clear now why Illya never really moved in to their neighborhood. He surely had his real home somewhere else. And he would go back there since he didn’t have to spy on Napoleon anymore.

“I really hated working with you, Peril.”

Illya chuckled. “You are a terrible spy, Cowboy.”

Damn, Napoleon had really grown to adore this guy. He was crude and awkward and impossible, but Napoleon wouldn’t have it any other way. He shifted in his seat and scooted even closer to the blond. This was almost the end of their adventure together and if they were about to go their separate ways, Napoleon wanted to make the most of the little time they had left.

He hesitated for a moment, but finally manned up and put his hand on Illya’s knee. The Russian tensed and looked at him, but didn’t do anything else. It was, after all, just Napoleon’s way to get his attention. They both ignored how the American’s thumb traced small circles on Illya’s leg

“I’m really fine, you know?”

“I know. I also know that I won’t be there next time to make sure it stays that way. I don’t have to keep my eye on you anymore.”

Napoleon’s heart fluttered and sank in a span of one short moment. Illya worrying about him was the sweetest thing ever. That man would never cease to amaze him. He was so caring and so damn perfect… But at the same time he confirmed that it was over, making it painfully hard to stay calm.

“You know, Peril, I was doing fine without you for years!”

“Yes, I’ve seen in Budapest. Didn’t look fine.”

“Budapest? You were there too? When I got shot… you…” Of course, he should have known. “You were that stray bullet.”

Illya’s face got even closer, leaning toward Napoleon’s ear to be more discreet.

“I was also the reason you looked back, and distracted you. You got shot because of me. I owed you that one.”

Napoleon swallowed hard, all his senses on high alert. He could almost feel Illya’s lips on his cheek.

“I got shot because I started shooting when it could easily be avoided, but…” Napoleon wished down a blush and turned his face toward the Russian. “…thank you Peril.” Their faces were almost touching, breaths mingling between their parted lips, and eyes locked. Napoleon’s hand slid on its own volition from Illya’s knee toward the inside of his thigh, which was impossibly long and toned and so hot under his fingers.

“You fuckin’ idiot!” The taxi driver hit the break, making Napoleon instinctively grab what was closest, which was still his friend’s leg, but somehow even further up than before.

At the same time, Illya’s instincts made him reach over Napoleon to press him back into the seat and stop from being flung forward. A moment later the car was already moving again, but the American couldn’t bring himself to move. His heart was pounding in his chest and it had nothing to do with the threat of a car accident, and everything to do with practically being in Illya’s arms.

Slowly the larger man started to move away, looking around worriedly, making sure that nothing happened, but his big hand still lingered on the American’s hip, while Napoleon’s was still enjoying the feel of firm muscles of the longest legs Napoleon had ever seen.

“Блядь. Are you alright?”

Illya’s eyebrows were high up on his forehead, clearly emitting his worry when he started to fuss over Napoleon’s bandaged hand for the billionth time that day.

Napoleon missed the warmth and the weight of Illya’s hand on his hip, and mourned loss of the touch of his own hand on Illya when he had to pull it out from between the other man’s thighs. Gods, all that tormenting tension between the two of them was driving him nuts. He couldn’t think straight, and clearly couldn’t even control his actions. It was embarrassing. He needed to calm the fuck down, stop thinking with his dick, and get himself together. Quick.

He looked out the window and only when he caught a glimpse of _Hemingway’s_ book and curio shop did he realize where they were headed.

“Oh, are we going to pick up my dry cleaning?” His joke fell flat on Illya’s lack of acknowledgement, but the car did stop at the entrance to Del Floria’s. By the time Napoleon managed to get out of the car Illya had already spoken to the driver to make sure he would wait.

Of course! Illya used to pretended to work at the charity organization on the third floor of the townhouse so Napoleon really should have known that the U.N.C.L.E. office would be right there. He moved his steps toward the staircase but Illya gently grabbed his arm and pulled him to the stairs leading below the street level and to his favorite tailor shop.

“Your dry cleaning is this way, Cowboy.” Illya teased in a hushed voice, leaning down once again to Napoleon’s ear and making the shorter man shiver.

They entered the shop, briefly greeted the man that usually tended to the desk, and passed him by without much preamble. What happened next made Napoleon gasp quite loudly and his heart skipped a beat. His feet forgot how to work and he almost fell when Illya practically dragged him into a fitting booth, closing the curtain behind them.

“Peril…?” It was more of a gasp than an actual word because Napoleon was unable to speak with his blood rushing in his veins, and heart hammering against his chest. He wasn’t used to being manhandled but somehow his body surrendered instantly, as if it waited for exactly that to happen all its life. He felt dizzy, but also ready. Whatever Illya wanted to do to him in that secluded place, Napoleon would not back down. He would…

He didn’t manage to finish his train of thoughts because suddenly Illya pulled on a hook beside Napoleon’s head and made the whole wall move, revealing a futuristic white corridor leading to a bright reception area with an elegant looking young woman at the desk. There were also people going this way and that, not minding the newcomers in the slightest.

“Come.”

Napoleon followed Illya inside, with the other agent’s hand still attached to his bicep, leading him inside. They walked up to the desk and all too quickly the novelty of the place which was apparently U.N.C.L.E. HQ - wore off as his interests found a new target: Illya interacting with the beautiful blond receptionist. The girl was smiling at him shyly.

“Welcome back, Agent Kuryakin. How was your mission?” Peril did not return the smile.

“Accomplished. Two yellow, please.”

The girl was already handing Illya one yellow badge before he even approached the desk. Now she reached down for another one for Napoleon, but her bright smile was already gone. Solo felt sorry for her. Being ignored by a man like Illya Kuryakin was hard to bear. He knew. Illya did it to him for the longest time and it was not fun.

So, just to make her feel at least a little bit better he served her with his most charming smile, winked and introduced himself, thanking her for the badge. Illya’s hand, the one that was still gripping lightly his arm pulled away as if burned, and Napoleon had to actually jog a bit to catch up with the quickly retreating Russian.

“Peril! Wait up.”

“Waverly’s office is this way.”

When Illya stopped suddenly Napoleon collided with his broad back, which was as solid as a freakin’ wall. He rubbed his nose and glared up at his neighbor. Illya glared right back.

“Where is your badge?” He barked in an unpleasant tone, one that Napoleon hadn’t been subjected to in a long time.

“Here.” The American pulled the badge out of his jacket pocket. Peril snatched it away and attached it properly to his lapel, knuckles brushing softly over Napoleon’s shirt-covered nipple.

“Always wear it. The chemicals on the badge change color when you enter secured zone. If you don’t have the badge you will set off the alarm.”

Not waiting for Napoleon’s answer the Russian knocked at Waverly’s door. After hearing the familiar English voice granting them access he opened the door, and ushered Napoleon inside.

“Ah, the devil and his advocate.“

“Sir-“

“No, Solo. This is something you don’t get to comment on. Just think how humiliating it is now that you know that I was right and you were wrong.”

Napoleon could feel his cheeks burn when the damn Englishman smiled shamelessly and then winked at Illya. The Russian predictably did not take the bait and let the older man continue.

“That being said, I cannot really punish either of you for blowing up that THRUSH facility, because it was, well, a THRUSH facility. And I can’t even prove that you did it anyway. What I can do, though, is point out that you shouldn’t have done that since we could have had our undercover operatives in there, or the baby could have suffered if you weren’t lucky. But, since you _were_ lucky I won’t even waste my breath. Instead I will admit that your mission was an accomplishment on a scale that none of us could have even imagined, and I must say that I think of it as my personal success.”

The man was grinning like a maniac, showing two rows of perfect white teeth.

“Congratulations, gentlemen. You saved the world.”

Napoleon returned Waverly’s smile thinking that the man must have been really gorgeous when he was younger. Peril’s face remained completely blank. His eyes darting to his father’s watch, a fact that did not escape Waverly’s attention.

“Are we in a hurry, Agent Kuryakin?”

“No Sir.” And after a beat. “But there is a taxi waiting…”

Waverly had that fond expression plastered to his face again and Napoleon suddenly remembered all too well why he sometimes couldn’t stand that prick.

“Of course. So, to not waste anymore of Agent Kuryakin’s precious time, I will move on to the essentials. The news about your marvelous work spread rather quickly and impressed a lot of people. I added a word or two where an additional word was required and in the end I managed to accomplish my goal.”

“Which is?” Napoleon wasn’t sure if he really wanted to know, but he supposed it was better to know more than less, when it came to people like Alexander Waverly.

“Which is, making other higher ups see things the way I see them. As I said before, your skills Mr. Solo should not be utilized solely by the government of United States. Many countries joined forces to finally catch you, and I believe it would only be fair if you served your sentence for the common good of the whole world. Am I right?”

Napoleon frowned. “You want to remove me from the Agency?”

“Well, technically, yes. But I can assure you that we are the elite. What I am offering you is the same thing I offered Kuryakin. When he was the KGB’s sharpest weapon I invited him to become U.N.C.L.E.’s brightest agent instead. Now I offer you a chance to save the world from a plague spreading like a disease. And let me tell you, you would be doing it for much more than you were able to pinch behind Sander’s back.”

“With all due respect Sir, what makes you think that Sanders will simply let me go?”

“Sanders was _extremely_ lucky that he managed to get his paws on you at all, not to mention keeping you for as long as he did. But it’s over now. As soon as I realized your potential I sent agent Kuryakin to assess your skills. And I was not disappointed. So, with all due respect Mr. Solo, Sanders’ opinion means shit. The decision is yours.”

“I thought it was yours?”

“If you prefer to remain with the Agency I will respect your choice, hoping that we will have more chances to utilize your skills during missions where our objectives are the same. We don’t force anyone to join. We make an offer, and I like to believe it’s a privilege when we do.” The older man was honest-to-God pouting!

Napoleon turned to Illya, looking for support, but Peril snorted and shook his head.

“Don’t look at me, Cowboy. It’s your life.”

“Take your time Mr. Solo. Talk to Agent Kuryakin if you have to, however…” Apparently dramatic pauses were Waverly’s trademark along with pearly white grins and dry humor.

“…if he says anything about me, assume it’s either blown out of proportion, or completely untrue.”

Predictably the Englishman set his eyes on the Russian agent anticipating a jab in return, but Illya chose that very moment to once again check his watch.

They said their goodbyes and headed back to the taxi still waiting outside. The drive home was quiet. Considering the confidentiality of the subject currently on Napoleon’s mind, he couldn’t just talk to Illya about it in a cab. The Russian’s long legs, spread wide taking half of the space were teasing Napoleon, and his hand didn’t feel right resting on his own lap. Finally, he decided to invite the U.N.C.L.E. agent for a drink later. After the attitude the Russian showed in the HQ Napoleon expected him to refuse but Illya, as always, surprised him pleasantly.

Once again he fixed some dinner knowing that food always lifted Peril’s spirits better than anything else, and waited for Illya with a table set for two, complete with candles and a bottle of an excellent wine.

Illya’s only reaction to the candles was one raised brow, which Napoleon resolutely ignored because he didn’t know how to react or what it meat. Was it Illya making fun of him, or silently approving of his neighbor’s choice in setting? Was it weird or just amusing? It was too stressful to think about at the moment so he chose to move on and worry about it later when he had no other choice.

He invited his guest to wait while he finished dressing the salad. Illya stood with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning on the door frame with a smirk dancing on his lips and watched Napoleon work. It was the apron - no doubt. It never ceased to amuse Illya, so Napoleon made sure to always open the door still wearing it. Illya’s teasing was worth it.

In the glass door of one of the cabinets he noticed Illya tilting his head slightly to one side, as if giving him a once over. He couldn’t be sure since he had his back turned to his guest, but the damn seed of hope was already there, making his heart flutter.

“I didn’t know you owned casual clothes, Cowboy.”

And his heart wasn’t fluttering anymore. It was doing somersaults, because Napoleon bought the jeans on a whim. It was crazy. He wasn’t a teenager and, really, wearing something like that seemed completely crazy. But then he saw that young man on the LEVI poster, and yes, he was that shallow. He simply wanted his ass to look like that while he cooked for Illya in his silly apron so sue him!

And it worked. Maybe Illya didn’t exactly praise him, but it certainly made him _look_ , and he looked exactly where Napoleon wanted him to look. The knowledge of that made those jeans just a tad bit tighter, and gods, this was crazy. And so wrong.

Flirting and teasing was not so bad when it was just between neighbors. It was always thrilling to taunt the Russian, to see how far he could push before he crossed the line. But now? Now there was   _potential_. The potential of working together, and forming a real friendship. They would be seeing each other every single day, passing each other in U.N.C.L.E. HQ corridors, exchanging hellos and having lunches together. It would inevitably lead to witnessing Illya move on with his life - finding love, getting married and having a family. Or worse, to hearing about his death on some hopeless mission half a world away while Napoleon was busy stealing secrets on the other side of the globe. The weight of all those possibilities was overwhelming and it made Napoleon want to hightail it once and for all.

But then he would never see his neighbor again. He wouldn’t have those hellos and shared lunches. He wouldn’t see Illya in love or with his first born child in his clumsy hands, holding his breath in fear of breaking the fragile creature.

Something in Napoleon’s chest squeezed painfully at the thought.

He still didn’t respond to Illya’s teasing and it must have been weird to the man still standing in the doorway.

“I brought wine.”

Feeling the other man move behind his back only made the situation worse. It made him think about Illya approaching him from behind, and how his slightly shorter body would fit with that larger frame, how they would match and how perfect it would probably feel. He already knew how the Russian’s hands could feel on his hips, hot and heavy and possessive… and just _right_.

Illya stepped into the kitchen and put the mentioned bottle on the counter, beside his silent neighbor.

“Do you want me to help?”

Finally, Napoleon cleared his throat and took a deep breath to calm himself and not make the situation even more awkward.

“Just… open the wine?”

Only he forgot that the opener was in the drawer which he was blocking with his body. He was about to move and get it for the blond but Illya’s hand was already there sneaking around his waist to reach the drawer. Napoleon held his breath and released it slowly only after Illya busied himself with opening the bottle.

“I forgot to tell you that I got wine too. It’s chilling in the fridge.”

Illya just shrugged. “Too late. I already opened this one.” The Russian took two wine glasses from a cabinet a poured them some. It was nice that instead of teasing the CIA agent the Russian was kind enough to help Napoleon relax.

“Do you ever regret saying yes, Peril?”

“I wasn’t given a choice. Not by my handlers at least. They said it was honor, and they simply handed me over.”

“But do you? Regret I mean…”

“No. Never.”

Napoleon nodded and started to transfer their food to the table, where they continued the conversation.

“Tell me about Waverly?”

Illya was already digging into his portion. The CIA agent always felt a strange satisfaction watching him eat things that Napoleon cooked himself. The Russian had an amazing appetite and enjoyed trying new things with childish curiosity.

“He’s a good man. He is a Commander in the British Naval Intelligence.”

“I knew it.”

“He is also one of five regional heads of U.N.C.L.E, but he really answers to no one. He’s at the top of the chain - head of Section One here in NY. What else…? He is an alumnus of Blair University. He wears tweed all the time.”

“Is he gay?”

“Considering that I’ve met his grandson, I highly doubt it.” Illya wasn’t looking up from his food.

“It doesn’t really mean anything, Peril. Do you really not see how much energy he wastes trying to get your attention?”

“He is trying to anger me. It doesn’t mean he finds me attractive. You purposely piss me off all the time.”

Napoleon’s eyes widened and he choked on the wine he was sipping. It was not how he wanted this conversation to go. He needed to steer it back to the initial subject and avoid his own attraction becoming the next topic.

“So, is Waverly a good handler? I mean, you don’t seem to be too concerned about being punished or anything like that.”

“He knows I wouldn’t do anything that could jeopardize the mission or U.N.C.L.E. so I guess he is used to me sometimes… getting out of hand. He knew what he was getting. And here they don’t… they don’t do conditioning… so it’s good.”

Illya’s gaze had dropped to the table-cloth and he wasn’t eating anymore. His hands holding the cutlery were shaking, so he put the utensils down.

Napoleon didn’t want to think about what conditioning meant, but he knew. The thought of some cowardly people hurting Illya to make him obey was making him sick and his appetite was gone instantly. All the anger that suddenly burst in him was unbearable. Someone dared to beat up this beautiful, magnificent man just to make him submit, to make him fit in, to make him serve. Napoleon knew the humiliation and pain of being forced to do things he didn’t want to.

Sanders had his own ways to make Napoleon useful and reliable, but it was mostly based on refusing or giving Napoleon things he knew the man needed. Napoleon was given some semblance of freedom to live his life in the luxuries he required, while Illya had been simply beaten into submission. What Illa had gone through was something Napoleon refused to even think about. He called it ‘conditioning’, like a repetitive process that probably occurred regardless of Illya’s performance, just to regularly remind him who was holding the leash. It was sickening.

Illya picked up his glass and quickly finished it. Napoleon poured him another and it was pretty clear that the Russian wasn’t going to finish his food either, so they just took the bottle and transferred to the living room to get more comfortable and relax with a game of chess.

“So, do you think I would fit in with U.N.C.L.E.?”

Illya snorted with amusement, showing that his good mood was quickly coming back.

“I think you would fit in anywhere.”

“Then let me rephrase my question. Do you want me to join?” Because that was, apparently, what really mattered. Replacing one handler with another could be good, but could also be very bad. As they say, _better the devil you know than the devil you don’t._ But Napoleon lived every moment of his life to the fullest and if there was something he wanted, he usually reached out to get it. He liked to spend time with Illya, to be around him. He liked looking at him and hearing his voice. Working in the same organization seemed like a nice prospect.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, Cowboy.”

“It matters to me.”

“It’s your decision. I admit that you would be a valuable asset.” Seeing the smile growing on Napoleon’s face Illya continued with growing humor. “Troublesome, and probably not worth all the hassle, but still, potentially useful. For something. Not sure what though. Maybe to steal something.”

Napoleon burst out laughing.

“You could be used as a distraction. You would hold everyone’s attention, letting us – real spies – do our job in peace. That would be useful.”

“I am an excellent spy, you prick.”

“You are a terrible spy, Cowboy. I already feel sorry for whoever they will assign you.”

“Careful, Peril. It may be you.”

“Oh no. I think they learned their lesson. I don’t work well with others.”

“You worked fine with me.”

When their eyes met over the chessboard they both knew what Napoleon’s decision would be.

 

 TBC.

Hey, does anyone know any more proverbs about neighbors?


	10. No man is wealthy enough to not need his neighbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the story is any good, it’s just because I have an amazing Beta! Thank you TawnyPixie.
> 
> eavos, PlanB, j2 - THANK YOU for the proverbs! (the standard ones and the made up ones) I really appreciate it, and always need more! I hope to use all of them!
> 
> GeneralGoods, GeneralGoods, nastya_almighty, Graywashed_Moony, v , Archangel_Arri , dnimreven, utterlyheartbroken , saltythumbtack , TinkanaiT32, firexcape, zvous , sunflowersmay  
> -THANK YOU FOR THE COMMENTS, EVERYONE!!!
> 
> Ps. Just to remind you all, as I declared at the beginning, I go with the TV show in regard to their life in UNCLE HQ, so don’t be surprised.

 

**_“No man is wealthy enough to not need his neighbor”_ **

_-_ _German proverb_

 

The first weeks in U.N.C.L.E. kept Napoleon extremely busy. Physical examinations, preliminary trainings and never-ending evaluations left very little time to socialize. Of course Napoleon still managed to make friends with most of the residents of the NY office and effortlessly flirted his way to good graces of all the female staff, but he was kept so busy that he rarely got time to mope.

He hadn’t seen Illya in almost two weeks. As expected, the Russian moved out of Napoleon’s neighborhood and the ex-CIA agent had yet to pass him in the hallway to exchange those ‘hellos’ he was so looking forward to. Honestly, Napoleon had expected working in the same office as his neighbor would be awkward or at least difficult and irritating. When he had been considering joining he was worried about seeing his favorite Russian too often, meanwhile it was the total opposite.

Every single time he thought he knew what to expect from Illya, he got something he never even considered and it was driving him up the wall.

After the first few days he started to subtly ask around about other agents. His new colleagues were eager to tell him interesting bits about nearly every single one of those stationed in NY, but somehow the subject of one Giant Russian with anger management problem has never came up.

Illya was more like an urban legend.

Apparently some people believed Illya was a survivor of an atomic blast, which gave him inhumane strength. There were some that swore he was over eight feet tall, and at least two people claimed that they saw him catch a bullet with his teeth.

Very few people had a chance to actually talk to him, and those who hadn’t, didn’t really look forward to it anyway. People avoided him in general, wary of his strength and uncontrolled anger. Some things they spewed about Illya were absurdly exaggerated, but some were so _Illya_ that Napoleon had trouble withholding his fond, dopey smiles.

He never told anyone that he and Illya were practically friends. Not just because he wanted to get more information, but also because honestly, he wasn’t even sure if they were friends anymore. Or ever, really. Maybe he had been nothing but a mission and it was all over now?

On the second week of not seeing Illya his frustration needed a vent.

He was restless and edgy, kind of wanting to punch something. In the end he started to just sleep around, quickly establishing his usual reputation around the female staff. It was easier and safer than getting into a fight or stealing art. He fucked his way through most of the blonds but all too quickly he got bored and even more frustrated  than before. Now he was really on the verge of shooting people, just because.

That’s when he had been sent on a mission, paired with another agent. He thought it was a welcome distraction and eagerly accepted the task. At first he tried to be courteous and patient with his new partner’s antics, but on the second day he started losing it pretty quick.

“If you don’t stop shuffling those cards I will throw them out the window.” The mission required them to keep an eye on a suspect to catch him in the act of selling THRUSH important information. But Napoleon couldn’t properly do his job with someone constantly making noise with a deck of cards in their hands.

“Sorry…” The man put the cards into his jacket pocket, for a moment he remained silent, and then turned on the radio.

“Seriously?” Napoleon couldn’t fucking believe it! Country music? At least Illya tormented him with jazz. This was just… too much. Everything about the guy was pissing Napoleon off, big time. He had huge forehead and his hair seemed always dirty, even right after a shower. His sense of humor was unbelievably primitive and his taste in art unacceptable. If possible, he was even more ignorant than Illya in this regard. Not to mention that he was a half-pint, completely unable to cover for Napoleon when he needed it the most.

Still, Napoleon didn’t punch him until the third day. To be honest, he wasn’t even sure why he finally did it. Why then exactly, and not sooner or later. They were just heading back to the hotel and Napoleon asked him about the time. His partner just shrugged saying he didn’t have a watch. And that was it. Two days later Napoleon’s fist still throbbed and his knuckles sported some bloody bruises for weeks.

So, maybe it was partially his fault that agent Lacy or Lawry or whatever-the-fuck it was refused to work with Napoleon again.

It was just that Napoleon really worked better alone.

Waverly listened to that short excuse and without a word handed Napoleon another folder. A solo mission – exactly the kind he prided himself to be the best at.

His pride took an awful blow when he narrowly escaped with his life, and managed to not fail spectacularly only due to dumb luck.

After this one he had no one to blame so Waverly’s judgmental stare was a heavy burden to bear. But somehow, Napoleon found himself uncharacteristically indifferent. Normally he wanted to prove himself in the eyes of his superiors, especially those he respected, and he did respect Waverly, but this time, he didn’t even really care what happened. If they decided to give him back to Sanders, like some ill-fitting or broken item, then he would go. There was hardly anything holding him back. He thought back to the time he spent spying on Illya and wondered if they would still have been neighbors if not for Napoleon’s insistent digging in the Russian’s private life.

“Agent Solo, I personally recruited you to this agency and I refuse to believe I could be wrong about you, so I will give you one more chance.”

Napoleon looked up, almost curious about the mission, but not quite.

“We have reasons to believe that a nuclear weapon is being constructed as we speak somewhere in Italy by people closely related to Mussolini.”

“Sounds interesting enough. When do I go?”

“First you need to get the proper equipment. You will be dealing with a nuclear weapon, which means radioactive substances. Please, go down to the labs and check for the items one of our agents develops specifically for this purpose.”

“Yes, Sir. And thank you, Sir.” Napoleon graced the older man with one of his dashing smiles. Every time he talked to Waverly he was surprised by how hard it was to not ask the man about the Russian. It was always at the tip of his tongue. He wanted to say it and feel at ease just knowing. Of course, once again he kept his mouth shut and left the office thinking of all the things Kuryakin could’ve been doing at the time.

His stomach rumbled so he redirected his steps toward the cafeteria. It was a lunch time so the lab rats were probably out too. Napoleon didn’t have to hurry. He bought a sandwich and was about to join some of his colleagues who were calling him to a nearby table when he saw him.

He almost dropped his tray seeing Illya just sitting there alone in a corner, with a stack of documents spread on the table in front of him. There was a plate with some leftover fries which he was munching on absentmindedly, his attention concentrated on a file. His impossibly long legs hardly fit under the small table and his pants were a bit too short in the leg, showing his shoes and ankles. His soft blond hair was falling onto his forehead forcing the Russian’s bony hand to brush it away every few seconds.

The American stood and stared for gods know how long when one of his colleagues finally pulled on his sleeve bringing him back to earth.

“Come on, Solo, stop staring.”

Napoleon turned to the man who whispered the words and met his frightened eyes.

“Why?”

“Are you kidding me? Don’t you know who that is?”

As much as Napoleon wanted, scratch that, he _craved_ to join Illya at that small table right that moment, he couldn’t help but be curious.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s Illya Kuryakin.” The words were mouthed like some forbidden spell that could bring the demise to the world if voiced properly.

“You mean the Red Peril?” Napoleon grinned enjoying his colleagues’ outraged expressions. “He can’t be that bad. I’ll go say hello.”

“No! Don’t!” One guy grabbed Napoleon’s elbow and tried to pull him back to the table.

“He’s crazy. Don’t talk to him. If you accidentally piss him off there’s no one to help you.”

“Oh come on, you guys. You’re just yanking my chain here, aren’t you? It’s because I’m new, isn’t it?”

Napoleon grinned, ignoring ardent protests of his worried companions, and bravely strode toward the quiet Russian and his fries.

“Peril!”

Illya’s hand paused with a single fry a mere inch from his already parted lips and looked up.

Being once again the center of this impossible man’s attention was like coming home. Even though the Russian tried to hide his smile under a scowl it was clear that he was just as happy to see the annoying American.

Napoleon quickly slid into the seat across form the Russian and leaned forward resting his elbows on the table.

“Cowboy?”

“Missed me, Peril?” Napoleon stole a fry foom Illya’s still unmoving hand with his teeth. He snorted hearing his terrified colleagues gasp behind his back.

“Hardly. What are you playing at? Your friends act weird. Look like they want to throw a net to drag you back or something.”

At that Napoleon just laughed, unable to hold himself back any longer.

“Damn, I missed you, Peril.”

“Already bored with your new surrounding?” Illya ignored Napoleon’s hand reaching for more fries and dipping them graciously in some white sauce.

“What is this? Mayonnaise?” In Napoleon’s humble opinion the only thing that went well with fries was catchup, so he didn’t hide the disgust in his voice.

“Tartar sauce.”

Napoleon scrutinized the fry with distrust licked a bit of creamy substance from the tip.

“It’s actually not completely disgusting. I think it could go well with some spicy meat.”

“Or fried cheese.”

“Hmm… I need to try that. Wanna come over to experiment?”

“Maybe some other time, Cowboy. I still have some experimenting to do right here.”

“Yeah, I know how you feel. I just got back from a mission and I’m already being sent out for another. Someone is trying to build an atomic bomb in Italy. Hey, do you know where the labs are? I’m supposed to go there to check on the equipment.”

“Come with me. I’m heading there myself.”

Illya stood from his chair and disposed of his tray, while Napoleon gathered Illya’s stuff and his own sandwich. Together they left the cafeteria already consumed in conversation, completely oblivious to the dumbfounded stares of the gaping agents.

While they passed countless corridors of UNCLE HQ Napoleon’s hand found its way to Illya’s back and rested there comfortably, assuring the former CIA agent that the man was really there, all tall and proud and pouting. He could feel that silly grin stretching his face and he didn’t even want to fight it. He wanted to enjoy the moment, to bask in Illya’s company; in his smiles and frowns, his teasing and his warmth, his smell and his adorably awkward kindness.

Napoleon had no idea how much he really missed his neighbor until they were finally reunited. Just being around the man changed _everything_. He walked into the cafeteria miserable and angry, and left… he had no words to describe it. His fingers clutched in the back of Illya’s shirt and even just that little fact that Illya didn’t comment was yet another proof of his perfection. Because he could tell Napoleon to stop wrinkling his shirt and back off. He could scowl or laugh and be mean. But he just walked on, rambling about the UNCLE cafeteria’s food. God, he missed this - Illya’s huge figure at his side, his warmth, his voice and that intoxicating smell…

All too soon they were entering the lab and  they would have to talk to people from the research team and shake hands.

Napoleon would have to let go of Illya’s shirt.

“Come on in, Cowboy. And don’t touch anything. And I mean…” Here Illya turned dramatically, stopping before crossing the threshold to meet Napoleon’s confused eyes. “…anything at all. Just DON’T.”

They entered the lab and it was, well, empty. Napoleon looked around to make sure, but there was nobody there.

“Nobody’s here, Peril. Let’s come back later.” When he turned back to Illya something was different. The Russian’s broad shoulders were hidden in a white lab coat.

“You… what are you wearing?”

Illya just rolled his eyes not bothering to give  an answer.

“I know about Vinciguerras and Dr Teller. Waverly has an access to them through Teller’s daughter, so the most important thing will be checking if they managed to enrich the uranium. Teller’s daughter will visit her uncle Rudi but that will be on social level, most likely in public, so I came up with this.”

Illya held up something small in his big hand. “It’s a film that will register the radiation.”

“What do you mean? You? You work in the lab?”

The Russian crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his backside on the lab table.

“Cowboy,” He frowned and his head tilted just a bit to the side. “you’ve just approached me in the cafeteria asking for the toys I made for Vinciguerra mission. How can you not know I work in the lab?”

“I just…” What should he say, really? He only approached Illya to talk to him, to spend some time with him, to soak in his presence. “…wanted to say hi.”

Illya was looking at him, his head still cocked to one side, mouth set in his customary pout and eyes confused beyond belief. He was like a force of nature pulling Napoleon closer. Before the poor American realized what he was doing he was already in Illya’s personal space, challengingly looking into the taller man’s eyes with a smirk.

“Hi…” Illya sounded breathless, like he had no air in his lungs to push properly through his vocal chords.

Or like he had been holding his breath.

The thought of Illya being affected by his proximity was exhilarating and intoxicating, making Napoleon a bit lightheaded. The brunet chuckled softly, sending warm puffs of breath at the other man’s soft-looking lips. He could feel fire spreading from his guts to his cheeks. He normally wasn’t a blusher, but then again, he normally wasn’t this close to his infuriatingly attractive neighbor. His eyes darted to Illya’s opened collar and stayed there, fixating on a trace of light blond hair and a prominent Adam’s apple bobbing nervously few inches above. The Russian had such a long neck. No wonder he looked good in those damn turtlenecks that Napoleon hated because they made him look stocky.

The American licked his lips and almost jumped out of his skin hearing Waverly’s voice calling them from the door.

“Oh good, Solo, you’re already here!”

Both agents instantly tried to create some distance between their bodies, which resulted in Illya hitting the table he was leaning on while Napoleon stepped back and dropped into a chair, finding Illya’s lab coat somehow squeezed in his clenched fist. How and when it got like that was a mystery.

Waverly stopped a few steps from them, kindly not commenting and letting them both regain their inner balance and proper distance. Napoleon could feel his face burn like a fire engine, while Illya looked completely and utterly crestfallen. It shouldn’t be surprising. He surely didn’t expect his boss to walk in on this ridiculous situation that could be so easily misinterpreted as something it obviously wasn’t. Illya was probably furious at him.

“Mr. Waverly?  What brings you here?”

The older man grinned at Napoleon, but his attention all too quickly moved to the taller of the two agents.

“I needed to make sure that Agent Kuryakin was ready with all the toys.”

“It’s ready. I was just showing him the film sensitive to Gamma radiation.”

That irritating glint in the Englishman’s eyes grew heavier as he smirked at his blond protégé.

“Really? That’s what you were doing? Why don’t you show me too then? I was mighty curious.”

Napoleon’s earlier embarrassment was rapidly turning into something much darker and more dangerous as he glared daggers at their handler. Illya just shrugged and moved to the other lab table where he had some already developed photographs showing dark blotches marking radioactive compounds samples.

“Fantastic. Since everything is ready the three of you can leave tomorrow. Mr. Kuryakin you will be posing as Miss Teller fiancé.”

“What? Why me? Why not him?”

“Because it seems more probable for a girl from East Berlin to be engaged with a Russian architect. It’s a brilliant cover, Kuryakin, so don’t spoil it.”

…

At first it was hilarious to watch Illya squirm under the small girl’s pretentious and angry stares. He was twice her size but she had him wrapped around her little finger, scolding him as if he were some unruly little boy. He was always clumsy and awkward around women so Napoleon enjoyed the situation until it stopped being funny.

Because she was looking at the Russian with that helpless fascination that Napoleon knew all too well from his own furtive glances. She looked like he felt. She longed for Illya’s attention but seemed unable to actually bear it and always got nervous and angry, snapping at the poor U.N.C.L.E. agent. Napoleon should find it cute, but it only made his blood boil with frustration.

Illya’s uneasiness also seemed to escalate to something that made Napoleon clench his teeth. Seeing them together, descending the Spanish Steps like a perfect couple was a blow. Because until now he couldn’t fathom Illya with a woman, but here he was.

They looked ridiculous together, of course. And she was too crude for someone as well-behaved as the Russian. She was a crass chop-shop girl, for fuck’s sake, no matter what she was wearing. Why would Illya try so hard to impress her, making up stories about Russian architects she couldn’t care less about?

In a fit of pure pettiness Napoleon approached them on the street, supposedly to tell Illya about their tail. He didn’t do it to warn him. He did it to make sure he would act like a wuss, just to spite him and make him look bad in the girl’s eyes.

That is why he felt so guilty about Illya losing his father’s watch.

This mission sucked.

The party was a nightmare but successful. Napoleon managed to get closer to Victoria, while Peril managed to beat the crap out of three Italian boys.

Later in the evening Napoleon went to Illya’s room to propose some snooping around together like they did in Colombia since the photos Illya had taken proved that the Nazis had managed to enrich the uranium.

He left Illya’s room angry, frustrated, and hell-bent on going alone because he didn’t want Illya at his side. He couldn’t trust his life with someone so stupidly distracted by a 4 foot tall tomboy girl. Illya’s behavior in his hotel room was ridiculous. The British agent was playing Illya like a fiddle, expertly making him seethe in jealousy over his fake fiancée and her interest in the Nazi playboy. It was driving Napoleon nuts.

Illya deserved better than some crude mechanic. He deserved someone… special. Someone he could trust with his life. Someone who would care about him like he deserves, who would…

Fuck it.

He didn’t even care. He had his own life and Peril wasn’t even a part of it anyway. Their paths crossed once in the past but now they just worked for the same agency and that was all. They were not neighbors anymore. They were not friends.

But despite all his anger, he still believed that Illya simply deserved more.

…

He packed his tools and was at the docks at midnight. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see Illya there with his own equipment, cutting through the fence. Five minutes later they were storming the place together, Napoleon making up for Illya’s lack of skills in disabling locks, while Illya cut the power off and led them to the vault. Napoleon was man enough to admit that he was showing off to impress the Russian with his unique skills and in all his excitement didn’t check for the alarm.

It was embarrassing.

“Loving your work, Cowboy.” Illya with an impossibly stoic demeanor pulled out his Makarov just before all hell broke loose. They ran through the corridors and stairs dodging bullets while shooting left and right, and somehow, in all this chaos, Napoleon found himself enjoying the moment like it was the best thing that happened to him in a long while.

Gods, he missed this – being with Illya like this, working together, saving the world and just being around each other. He missed their intuitive cooperativeness that didn’t require any verbal communication. He missed Illya’s jabs and frowns. Missed his presence always at his six, always having his back.

He missed Illya.

He missed him enough to throw himself into the water in a truck to follow him into the cold black depths of the bay. He missed him enough to not be able to let go of the dead weight in his arms even though he couldn’t hear Illya’s breathing. Missed him so desperately that he didn’t even notice tears falling from his eyes when he punched that strong chest, to kick-start the Russian’s heart. He pressed his wet lips against the other man’s to breathe life into his lifeless body and he didn’t even mind the taste of stale salty water. He wanted to do it again. He wanted to make it last longer. He wanted to…

Napoleon had that upsettingly pale face cradled in his hands when Illya suddenly coughed out some dirty water and threw up.

“Cowboy…?” His hair seemed darker when it was wet. It stuck to his forehead for a moment but then fell over his questioning blue eyes.

“Next time, just follow me, ok, Peril?”

The blond turned his head toward the water where the lights from the truck still cast some fading glow to the surface.

“Thank you, Cowboy.” He wasn’t looking at Napoleon, almost like he knew what he did. He had to know. It was, after all, the only way to force Illya to breathe. There was nothing to be ashamed of. But Peril didn’t really look ashamed. He was probably furious at Napoleon for violating his lips like that. He almost apologized, but then Illya turned to face him and something in Napoleon surged violently filling his guts with so much pure emotion his heart almost stopped. He coughed awkwardly trying to regain his bearings. His heart was still beating, and Illya was still looking at him with that strange, vulnerable look in his confused eyes.

“I really owe you one.”

“Actually, Peril, I’m pretty sure I still owe you. When it comes to saving each other, I'm still in your debt."

 

Illya’s face was unreadable. Napoleon stood up and held his hand toward his partner to pull him up. He didn’t know why, but it surprised him that his gesture was met with a small smile and the Russian’s hand in his.

All they had to do now was get back to the hotel before Victoria discovered that they were not there. Illya’s body was pressed against his back all the way back to the hotel, making Napoleon all hot and bothered. His rented Vespa almost gave up under their combined weight but somehow they managed to reach the hotel at exactly the same time as Victoria. They quickly sneaked behind her back and ran up the stairs. Illya turned at the first floor to go to his own room, but Napoleon’s hand grabbed his and pulled him along, up another flight.

There was no time to think or ask questions. Napoleon had to improvise. He knew Victoria would go straight to his suite, so he needed to be prepared. He pulled Illya inside and locked the door.

“What now?” Illya was looking at him once again confused and angry. His clothes were still a bit damp.

“Strip.” Napoleon whispered, already pulling off his own top and kicking off his shoes. Luckily Illya rushed by his partner’s demanding tone didn’t question him, and obediently pulled his sweater over his head. When they heard heels in the corridor Napoleon pushed Illya back, making him land on his bed. He quickly straddled his thighs and started to undo Illya’s fly. They could hear the key being pushed into the lock but neither of them even looked that way because Napoleon’s lips were suddenly crushing Illya’s, his expert tongue sliding in forcefully.

When the Russian’s mouth parted for him Napoleon moaned shamelessly losing himself in the most perfect kiss he ever had. His hands slid into Illya’s blond mane and he felt the man’s hands sliding over his sides, brushing sensually over his bottom. It felt too good to be true. It was too perfect. Another whiny sound escaped the American’s lips when Illya flipped them over, towering over Napoleon’s smaller body and ravishing his mouth. When biting kisses moved from Napoleon’s lips to his exposed neck his head turned to the side, meowing like a cat in heat. He opened his eyes for just a second and jumped seeing Victoria watching them from the door.

Damn, how could he forget that she was there?

Illya jumped off the bed with his gorgeous eyes huge and startled as he addressed their uninvited guest.

“Victoria!? What- what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question, but I already know the answer.”

“Please, I can explain…”

Victoria Vinciguerra had her arms crossed over her chest, her whole demeanor threatening, but her eyes seemed more amused than angry.

“I wonder, how will Rudi react when he finds out.”

Napoleon stepped between them with his hands raised, aiming to calm them both down.

“Victoria…”He gave the woman his most charming smile. “This is something we can easily explain. There is no need to tell anyone. Honestly… nothing really happened!”

“Yet.” Victoria added with a cunning smile.

Napoleon groaned and rubbed his forehead. “Victoria, please. Please, don’t.”

“Are you suggesting I should hide that he’s cheating on Rudi’s little angel?” That sly smile never left her face.

“That angel may very well be with your husband right about now. If I were you, I  would be more concerned about her, not Illya.”

Victoria’s eyes widened and a heartbeat later she was gone, slamming the door behind her.

 

 TBC.

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

 


	11. If you really want to know who you are, go ask your neighbor.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter is UN-Beta'ed, but I didn't want to make wait any longer.
> 
> Thank you PlanB, the_worrying_kind, HeilHydra, Queen_of_nerds, Archangel_Arri, Roxielove, dnimreven, firexcape, TinkanaiT32, Olivero, Blackie_xenphonex, gulabi for reviewing. Also, I AM SO SORRY for being late. I'm a looser like that.

 

"Si quieres saber quien eres, pregúntaselo a tu vecino."

"If you really want to know who you are, go ask your neighbor."

-       _Spanish proverb_

 

Napoleon woke up with a hard on, which was a  curious thing considering that he jacked off four times that night, thinking of the show he and Illya had put on for Vnciguerra. When he opened his eyes in the morning his poor tormented mind was still in the gutter. It was impossible to forget, or to think about anything else than the Russian’s lips on his, or his lovely hands sliding tenderly over Napoleon’s sides to his touch-deprived bottom. Women never gave it enough attention, he suddenly noticed. How come it never bothered him before? He was suddenly touch starved in so many places that his whole body ached. And his own hands couldn’t ease that suffering. He was burning.

His manhood throbbed, strained painfully against his already sweat covered stomach. Napoleon gently brushed his fingers over the inside of his thigh, savoring the moment. He slid his hand slowly up, toward his crotch but didn’t touch his cock. Instead he torturously slowly moved his fingers further, brushing gently over the sensitive skin right under his sack. He shivered with pleasure and let his hand travel back the same way, stopping for a moment at that particular spot. He rubbed it gently, his fingers catching briefly his puckered entrance.

He sat up with his heart pounding in his chest. This was crazy. He shoudn’t even think about it. He couldn’t.

He lay back down again, calming down. Maybe he shouldn’t do it, but it did feel surprisingly promising. His hand traveled back where it was, brushing teasingly his twitching muscles. He almost dipped the tip of his finger in when an awful ringing of a telephone made him fall of the bed.

After a few deep calming breaths Napoleon picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr. Davney. I half expected the Russian to pick up. He left already?”

“Victoria, good morning. Actually I have no idea what you are talking about, since I happened to spend this night alone. Not for the lack of trying, mind you.”

“Oh, poor Jack. Did I spoil your evening? I didn’t mean to scare your lovely Russian away.”

“Then what did you mean really, barging into my room? You obviously knew he was there. You must’ve seen us…”

“Actually no. I was going to see you. I didn’t expect you to have company. To compensate for your Architect dumping you, I can see you at 12:00 in my office. Don’t be late.”

The line went dead right after Victoria’s last words, not giving Napoleon a chance to decline. He put the phone down and sat heavily on his bed. He was really in no mood for sleeping with Victoria at the moment. Actually, he doubted he could, even if he wanted to. It was not good.

He quickly hit the shower and skipping breakfast started to work on adjusting the tracking device which he synchronized with Illya’s transmitter. Teller’s daughter was supposed to meet her uncle Rudi for lunch and there was a sound possibility that he would let her meet her father. And where Dr. Teller was, there was the bomb too. So, they had to stay on track of her movements. Napoleon  needed to stay sharp and focused.

Which was hard with his mind still hug up on the deliciously sloppy kisses shared with his former neighbor. It still amazed him how quickly Illya jumped into the new scenario, responding to Napoleon’s assault just as fiercely and eagerly, letting out all those growling sounds that still made Napoleon hard just remembering them. Illya kissed him, like he couldn’t get enough, like he wanted to devour Napoleon, to eat him alive. His sharp teeth on the American’s neck felt like sin and ultimate pleasure. At that moment Napoleon hoped that he would leave some marks right there, above the collar of his shirt, but there was nothing left. Not even a  hickey or a beard burn. 

A knock on the door almost made him burn his finger with a soldering iron. He didn't even have a chance to answer when the door opened and here walked in the embodiment of Napoleon's latest fantasies.

"Peril? Good morning."

Pushing those words out almost choked him. He didn't know what to do or say. Last night Illya left almost right after Victoria, congratulating them both on their excellent handling of the situation. He didn't seem bothered by the way they handled it, though Napoleon might have missed something considering how overwhelmed with everything he had been at that moment.

He was actually still pretty overwhelmed.

Enough to not really listen to what Illya was currently ranting on about.

"...what if she didn't really buy it? She could've been pretending."

"Peril, we gave it all we've had. And I am sure she believed us. I talked to her this morning and I'm meeting her later today."

"So we just continue with the plan? What if she told uncle Rudi abut us?"

"If there is a chance that he will lead us to Doctor Teller, than do we have a choice?"

Illya was pacing the room, huffing and hissing.

"It's like leading a lamb to slaughter." And there it was again. Illya's infuriating attachment to that girl. Napoleon paused what he was doing to glare at his Russian partner.

"Going soft, Peril?"

"What are you talking about?"

Luckily, he didn't get the chance to answer because right then the subject of their conversation entered the room, playing Illya like fiddle from the moment she crossed the threshold. She didn't even have to try too hard, because the Russian was already turning into that weird and awkward version of himself. Still, not turning her tracker on was a nice move - getting Illya's hands on her, making him trust her, making him worry, making him want...

She caught him glaring at her but didn't say anything. She just lifted her head higher triumphally and turned to look the other way. Napoleon just couldn't take it. He didn't want to look at them, look at Illya looking at her.

Napoleon arrived to the Vinciguerra Shipping with five minutes to spare, but went straight to Victoria’s office admiring the lavish interior. Victoria, though currently on the phone, seemed to be already expecting him. Napoleon felt strangely intimidated by the sight of her, behind a huge sculptured desk. He couldn’t stop thinking  about why she wanted him there and worry that he would not 'stand up' to the task. That probably explains why he so stupidly and eagerly jumped to the offer of a drink.

“So sorry to keep you waiting.” Victoria finally finished her phone call and directed all her attention to her guest. “You don’t look like you slept much last night, Mr Daveny.”

Another jab at their unfortunate meeting last night made Napoleon want to lash out but suddenly he realized that his whole body felt heavy, and exhausted.

“Funny you’d say that, madam Vinciguerra. Now a suspicious man would say you put something in my drink.”

Knowing it was exactly what was going on Napoleon continued the conversation, at the same time making himself comfortable on the very uncomfortable looking couch.

He listened to Victoria mocking him. So it wasn't their performance that blew their cover, it was the traitorous girl. He should have known from the start. His eyes fluttered while his thoughts traveled to Illya, betrayed, endangered and alone gods know where, with Napoleon unable to save him. The last thing he managed to take a look at was an old picture of the young Alexander Vinciguerra with his father, and a boat which name was only partially visible from behind their backs.

"Sleep well, Napoleon."

"Only my mother calls me Napoleon."

His vision faded completely and when he woke up it was to something that surely would be his worst nightmare for a long time, providing that he would get out of this alive, of course. Even though it was not the first time he had been drugged or kidnapped, usually there was no Nazi psychopath torturing him just for some sick pleasure.

Just when another wave of pain blurred his vision, making him think that this was probably the last one he would survive, a glitch in the system shut the electric chair down. Then a movement behind the glass door made Napoleon look up, just in time to see a guard stumbling and falling on his face. And just like that, he knew he would be fine, because Illya was there to unleash his wrath on anyone that hurt his partner.

God, how he wanted to kiss that man.

Normally he would not let Illya torture anyone but there was nothing normal about this situation, and being once on the receiving end of the treatment made Napoleon a bit less forgiving toward uncle Rudi. Even if the man did tell them everything he knew about the transport of the nuclear warhead, the Vinciguerra Island, and the submarine.

Still, Napoleon could swear that his death was a genuine accident!

Soon they were on a chopper heading for the Vinciguerra Island, with Waverly once again teasing Illya and driving Napoleon nuts. Napoleon seriously wanted to punch him after the Englishman admitted that he purposefully ordered “his agent”, as he called Teller’s daughter, to practically throw them under the bus to uncover the location of the warheads.

Even though they were on an extremely tight schedule storming through the Vinciguerra’s estate, Napoleon still managed to spare a moment here and there to check the left wrist of every man he killed and every corpse he passed until he had found what he was looking for.

Then after a murderous chase and particularly exhausting fight in the rain, Napoleon managed to retrieve the disk with the research and plans, and get saved once again by his lovely hero throwing a motorbike at Alexander.

After blowing up Victoria and the warhead they all went back to the hotel, the trip being awfully quiet. Napoleon assumed that Illya was thinking about the girl sitting at his side. In the end, she was not a traitor they were taking her for. Maybe the silly Russian really did like her after all? Maybe Napoleon should just… let it happen? Maybe he should let Illya go?

When they were going in to their hotel Illya grabbed Napoleon’s wrist, stopping him from getting onto the same elevator as the other two agents.

“Peril?” Napoleon instantly leaned into the other man’s touch.

“How about a drink to celebrate?” There was the smallest of smiles dancing on Illya’s lips.

“Great idea, Peril. Let’s get cleaned up and meet in my room in, let’s say half an hour?”

“I… I was thinking about a bar…”

“My room, Peril. I’ve got something for you.”

After saying that, Napoleon felt an irresistible urge to wink at the flustered man but seeing Illa’s eyes widen in confusion, and something akin to terror, he decided against it.

“Don’t worry, Peril, you’re gonna love it.” Despite Napoleon’s best intentions to help Illya relax, his words only made the other man blush harder.

He was ready for Illya 20 minutes later, showered and dressed to a T. It took Illya almost an hour to finally work up a courage to nervously knock at Napoleon’s door. The American jumped startled, even though he was waiting for it quite impatiently. When Illya finally entered his room, they stood staring at each other rather dumbly, neither having any clue what to do next. Finally, Illya moved a step toward his partner, nervously hiding his hands in his pockets.

"You looking for a gun, Peril?"

Illya snorted, clearly amused, but not really able to laugh.

"You are not the worst American I had to work with, Cowboy. I may keep you around for a bit longer."

"Oh, you want to keep me, Peril? I'm so flattered."

"I meant that I would merely keep you alive, not as my partner."

"Good, because it so happens that I work better alone."

"I do hope so. Because I may not be around next time you get yourself caught and tortured."

"Well, if I were you, I would be more worried about your own skin, and finding someone else to give you CPR."

"If you were me you would not be worried about anyone at all. I don't care."

"Peril, I don't want to burst your bubble, but you should know that you are a terrible liar."

It only made Illya roll his eyes. The Russian was well aware of his own unapologetic straightforwardness.

"And you are a terrible spy, Cowboy. I thought we were here to toast, not exchange pleasantries."

Illya defensively crossed his arms over his chest.

"So those were pleasantries? Of course. I forgot you are Russian." Napoleon moved around the room to the table where a bottle of Scotch was already waiting for them with a bucket of ice and two crystal glasses. He fixed their drinks and proposed drinking them on the balcony.

The air outside was pleasantly warm. The amber liquid shone in the cut glass reflecting the setting sun that was painting Illya's face with golden glow. With all his love for art Napoleon couldn't recall even one single piece that would bring in him such a strong torrent of emotion. If he were an artist he would spend the rest of his life trying to put this particular moment onto canvas. Because this sight right there was pure art. And no artist could ever recreate its simple beauty.

Just a perfect moment in time, that Napoleon would love to steal away, to keep forever.

A cold drink shoved into his hand quickly reminded him that this moment was still there, it was not a memory, not a framed impression hung on the wall to admire, but something for Napoleon to experience and take part in. And wasn't he a master of living every moment to the fullest? He willed down a blush that threatened to violate his cheeks and raised his drink.

"To saving the World!"

"Good toast, Cowboy." Illya's glass clicked gently against Napoleon's and the taller man's eyes met his for a moment, before they both took a sip of Napoleon's favorite scotch. It tasted like a burning warmth with a pinch of something calming. He raised his eyes and once again he was met with the sight of Illya's lips. It was infuriating that their height difference was so significant, and that it always put Napoleon's eyes on exactly that level. It didn't really give him any choice. He was forced to look at Illya's mouth all the time. It was so incredibly frustrating. And then a bit lower, where Napoleon would wish to see an unbuttoned shirt collar was that accursed turtleneck. Napoleon's hands itched to pull it off of the other man and dress him up, preferably in something like a thin linen shirt, loose enough to show the Russian's collarbone and wrists...

"You are awfully quiet today, Cowboy. Makes me wonder if you are sick."

"I'm just enjoying a peaceful moment. God knows we don't have enough of those."

Illya dropped his gaze sadly rubbing at his left wrist.

"I almost forgot. I've got something for you, Peril."

"Another decadent painting?"

"No, something a lot more... Russian."

He pulled Illya's watch from his pocket and handed it to his stunned friend.

Illya's eyes widened but the bastard still clearly couldn't believe it was real, because he checked the engravings on the bottom twice before he pulled up his sleeve and replaced the watch around his elegant wrist with shaking hands. For a moment he looked at it, not raising his eyes.

"How...?" His voice was harsh, like a sandpaper.

Napoleon shrugged, because he just couldn't tell Illya how he checked every corpse on his way looking for it, or how he kicked one dead man in a face just because he wasn't the one who stole it.

The Russian was staring him dead in the eyes and all lies about simply finding it died on Napoleon's lips when he outstretched his hand for Napoleon to shake.

"Thank you, Napoleon."

"Only my mother calls me Napoleon..."

 

They stayed on the balcony drinking whisky and trading biting comments, enjoying each others company and admiring the sunset. The bottle was almost empty when a cool breeze hit Napoleon's heated face and in another second it was pouring. Just like during their chase on the Vinciguerra island the rain came out of nowhere.

They were both drenched in seconds it took them to get back inside, especially with their movements being strangely inaccurate due to the consumed alcohol. Napoleon almost knocked over a tv, while Illya managed to tangle himself in a curtain. It took them a while to stop laughing, but then Napoleon realized that his greatly overpriced jacket was still on the balcony. He turned to get it back, but he swooned, literally, and if not for Illya's still sharp reflexes he would fall on his face.

But he landed in Illya's arms instead.

The first thing that hit him was Illya's smell. The Russian always smelled good but apparently when he was wet something changed it into a literal aphrodisiac, because it made Napoleon hard so quickly it took his breath away.  The second was how intently Illya was looking at him.

Napoleon hated being wet around people. He knew it made his hair curl and that made him look young and vulnerable. He didn't want to look like that, especially not in front of this infuriating man, who was looking down at him from under his wet blond fringe falling over his eyes. Illya's eyelashes were crazy long. Napoleon knew there was a reason why he should try to stop his hand from moving and brushing that fringe away, but he couldn't remember what it was. He was too drunk  and too tired to fight it.

"You're drenched, Peril. You should take this off." Not waiting for any response Napoleon started to pull on Illya's turtleneck, drawing it up his body, his hands brushing over Illya's chest. The Russian obediently raised his arms allowing Napoleon to pull the sweater off but he was too tall and the American had to struggle to reach that high. The laugh coming out of Illya's mouth was the most beautiful sound Napoleon had ever heard. But still, to save the rest of his wounded pride he pushed his partner down onto the couch and straddled his lap to finish his task leaving Illya in a white wife beater. The sweater landed on the floor with a wet clapping sound and it filled the ex-CIA agent with a sense of victory.

"That is much better."

"Really? How so?" Illya was honest to God smiling up at him, his eyes wondering all over Napoleon's face like he had never seen it before. And his attention was precious and Napoleon wanted to keep it. He could see Illya's nipple through the thin fabric of his wet tank-top. The Russian's body was as hard as steel and perfectly toned, without an excess of muscle and Napoleon had to take a minute to marvel over his beauty while he could. Illya didn't seem to mind it. He looked rather content just sitting there with Napoleon towering over him and staring at his friend's face.

A soft stretched out hum of thunder filled the silence and the air grew even more hot and heavy. Napoleon vaguely remembered that there was a question he was supposed to answer but for the life of his couldn't remember what it was about. His hands settled on Illya's shoulders and his head leaned forward, letting his forehead rest on the one in front of him. He heard the other man hold his breath and paused his movements reading himself for being pushed away but the Russian remained still and quiet. And he still wasn't breathing. He survived drowning and now he was going to suffocate on Napoleon's couch. The thought was hilarious and the American simply started to laugh, burying his face in the Russian's shoulder. It instantly made Illya not only breath again but also chuckle.

"You've had too much to drink, Cowboy."

Napoleon nodded into Illya's neck with intention to pull back, but the other man smelled too good, and his delicious looking skin was right there, so he simply nuzzled it with his nose, humming approvingly. He could feel Illya squirm, but he wasn't pulling away. If Napoleon wasn't so completely wasted he would even say that Illya moved his shoulder to accommodate his ministrations even more.

Just when he was sure Illya's hands were about to land on his hips a knock on the door made them both jump.

"Gentlemen?"

Waverly's voice sounded awfully business-like considering their mission was over.

"Gentlemen, we need to head out in fifteen. We have a situation. Please. .... Are you decent?"

Napoleon moved up to quickly get off of Illya's lap but he just gracelessly dropped backward and onto the floor. By the time he managed to get up Illya was already opening the door.

"Kuryakin, not that I mind, but I asked if you were decent!  Where's your clothes?"

"Sir? What is the emergency?"

Waverly moved his head to the side to take a peek around Illya's tanned shoulder and grin at Napoleon's two unsucesfull attempts to get up.

"So I have news. Fresh, little unpleasantness has arisen. We need to leave to Istanbul immediately. Kuriakin, agent Teller was hoping to see you before we leave. She's waiting for you in her room. Please, don't loose any more clothes there. We're on the clock."

Napoleon watched from his less than comfortable possition on the floor as Illya gave him a hesitant look, only to quickly excuse himself and leave.

"Agent Solo, I hope you are packed. Let's meet in the  lobby in ten."

Only after the older man left closing the door behind him, Napoleon scraped himself off the carpet and fixed himself another drink.

Next thing Napoleon remembered was being rudely woken up on the plane landing in Istanbul.

 

 TBC


End file.
